I’m supposed to be doing math.

Sometimes it seems like I’m always supposed to be doing math.  I’m sitting cross-legged on my back porch because momma wants me to feel the sun.  It feels good, but it doesn’t help with math.  It makes me warm and curious and lazy.

There are ladybugs on the porch, red as momma’s lipstick and dots as black as ink.  They’re enjoying the sun too, and when one lands right on my math problem, I give up.  The ladies are having a party, and I want to join them.  So I do.

My bare feet hit grass as I chase after the ladybugs still flying in the air.  They sway like scribbles in the air, like they’re dancing, and I’m hanging from them like a puppet with hands outstretched.  A squirrel chatters at us as we zig-zag too close to its tree, but it does nothing more because the ladybugs are too small for it and I’m too big.

A stick snaps under my feet, and it’s only then that I look down and realize where they’ve been landing when I loose sight of them.  There’s a few on my white shirt and a couple crawling on my jeans, hitching a ride.  I carefully gather them into my hands and walk them back to the porch.  One of them spreads its wings and then lets them settle, like she’s detangling her skirts after dancing so wildly.

They need hats.

I scramble for my notebook and tear a tiny strip off the bottom.  I look back at the ladybugs, frowning.  They’re so tiny.  I tear a tiny piece from my strip and try to roll it into a party hat.  It’s bigger than the bug’s head, and doesn’t stay on.

So I tear off another piece.

My fingers are little, but not quite small enough to twirl hats the right size.  Specs of white lay scattered on the porch before I try a different style.  Party hats don’t fit ladybugs, and quite right, too.  They’re dressed too fancy in their polka dot dresses for pointy hats.  They need one of those floppy-brimmed hats that I would wear to a tea party.

I’m getting good at tearing off the teeniest pieces of paper now, and I leave them flat as I try to place them on top of their tiny black heads.  I never realized how shaky my hands were until now, but even so, the hats start to stay.  One ladybug has to leave early, and she flies into the air with her hat still on.

I hope the other ladybugs will appreciate her hat.

The day is falling into one of those deep blue evenings, the ones that have frogs singing and squirrels chattering and a blue jay causing a ruckus somewhere in the trees.  The air is still warm but the grass is cool, and it takes longer than it should to realize the dew is already settling.

The sun is gone.  The sky is still light and washed in warm colors, but somehow I failed to notice the sun disappearing.  It is time to go back inside, and I gather my math books into my arms and take a last look at my porch party.

Flakes of white lay scattered like shredded confetti.  A few pieces sit atop the most fashionable ladybugs this side of the neighborhood, who are crawling around to show off to each other.  A few pieces have made it to the yard, either fallen from a ladybug or carried by the breeze.

I’ll still have to do my math, but then it seems I’m always doing my math.  Sometimes, I think everyone should pause a minute.  They should get back to their work, of course, to be sure.  But they should also pause it every once in a while.  Sit on their back porch.  Feel the warm afternoon sun.

And make hats for ladybugs in polka dot dresses.

Do not wake the sleeping princess.

Believe me when I say, she should remain at rest.

I did not know her before, but I know what they say.  She was once beloved in the kingdom, fair and gentle and kind.  They say her father taught her about his kingdom, and her mother raised her to know the ways of the court.  They say she and the prince would bicker as siblings do, but heaven help anyone who dared insult one in front of the other.  The pink roses that lined the walkways of the grounds were planted at her request, and it is said they nearly glowed with life whenever she passed by.

Do not wake the sleeping princess.

I guard the palace so she remains undisturbed.  I was there for the days it all unfolded.  I have been here for hundreds of years now, and I will remain for hundreds more.  They say much in the history books, and I can’t say how much of it all is true.  I only know what I was there to see.

Wild men came up from the south, with their beastly mounts and screaming war cries, spreading fear across the kingdom.  It was they that caused me to go to the palace, to see what could be done.  The prince lead their men to fight, I passed him along the way.  Most agree that he died a hero, and that is all they will agree on.

Illness took the king, taking first his mind and last his strength.  I appeared in time to protect the princess and the queen, and hold him down to be retained.  I never asked for an account of the horrors he’d made before I arrived, but people talk, and have for centuries.  Sometimes I think I know too much.

The night after the king died, the queen vanished from under my care, I have not seen her since nor do I believe any of the rumors I have heard.  Rumors are not worth my time, they do nothing but steal away energy.

The wild men continued to sweep through the kingdom, and I could only do so much to help as the princess tried to rule her crumbling kingdom with a broken heart.  They came for her, slowly but surely, and they took her.  I tore apart forest and mountain to find her, and only ashes remained of them after I took her back.

It was too late.  My greatest regret is that I had not been able to keep her from their grasp.  The light had been stolen from her eyes, the color drained from her skin.

The kingdom was lost, and they pushed us back until my wings were shredded and we were cornered into the palace.  There, they could come no closer, for there were towering walls and I had scales of gleaming armor and wildfire on my breath.

Darkness descended over the kingdom now given to savages.  It weighed heavily on my princess.  She grieved and shook and raged, pacing the empty halls until I saw a spark of her father’s madness in her eyes.

I could not bear to see her suffer, to see her waste away in these stone walls that had become a cage, and I would not let the madness take her.  Thus, I gave her the only gift I had left to offer.  I gave her deep and quiet sleep.

Her roses grew terrible thorns and twined together, climbing the walls until they’d swallowed them whole.  Their petals turned blood red and refused to shrivel when they fell, instead carpeting the grounds like rich velvet.  Cobwebs lace the halls.

Do not wake the sleeping princess, under penalty of my wrath.  She finally knows peace, and I will not let it be broken until she can wake to something better.  I have patience.  I will watch over her.  Someday she will awaken and start her healing.

Until then, let her rest.

 

Whoa, look at the moon.

It is full and bright and it makes the night feel like a mysterious day.  It fills me with long forgotten memories of dewy grass under my feet, of riding in the passenger seat with sleepy eyes and a smile on my lips, of wishing into the dark when I was eight and filled with all that could be.

It says to me, you are safe.  It says to me, you are alive.

I make a wish and blow it to the sky.  The wind carries my voice as I whisper back, I am filled with light.

Whoa, look at the moon.

It is big and orange and resting on the horizon as if weighed down to earth.  It makes me think of summer campfires and catching random bits of music my brother plucks out on his guitar.  It is soft, and warm, and close enough to touch.

It says to me, the day has passed now.  It says to me, you can set it down.

I reach out and imagine that my fingers brush its surface.  The night is singing softly as I whisper back, hello old friend.

Whoa, look at the moon.

It is a sliver amongst a sea of stars, barely there and mostly hanging in shadow.  It is not light enough to see around myself, but it is dark enough to find the stars.  Sometimes I stare at it through my window while curled under my blankets, only a little of me showing.

It says, inhale, you do not have to be always beaming.

It says, exhale, you will shine again.

I smile into my pillow, and it sends my words to the sky as I whisper back, I will see you again.

Meet me on my front porch with blankets after the sunset dies.

Tell me a secret, tell me a wish.  Often, I find they can be the same thing.  Hold my hand and listen as I tell you about my day, my week, my life.  Just because I repeat myself does not mean I mean it any less.  Sometimes, I am too caught up in wonder to realize how I’m conveying it.

You do not have to think too hard, you do not have to always understand.  I want you here with me.  I want to share my thoughts, my curiosity, my wonder, while you sit at my side.  Simply stare with me in amazement when I point up and say,

Whoa.

Look at the moon.

The book was old, it’s pages swollen the way pages do when they’ve been used and lived in.  I opened it, meaning to briefly glance through it before moving on.  Something happened though, as I saw the handwriting and paused on the first page.

This was someone’s life.  What things had stood out enough for them to write it down?

The first entry was dated, her name written in the top corner like it was a homework assignment.  Irene Tribbler.  Every line was printed carefully.

Dear diary,

I’m supposed to write in here at least every week, but I haven’t the slightest clue what to write about.  I don’t do exciting things, I don’t go to curious places.  I have school, and I sleep, and that’s about it.

So if anyone reads this, sorry.  You’re not going to find any cool secrets.

Irene

If life had been so boring, what had she filled all of these pages with?  I flipped to the next page, dated a week later.  No ‘dear diary’ this time, just words that got messier and more scribbled out the farther she got.

The Night lasts forever,

For a mind like mine,

When my its voices only still whisper,

Of memories words thoughts

Brine

Fine  ?

Spine

Sign

Line  ?

Whine

Of everything that isn’t fine

That everything’s not fine

I sat down, lingering in the puzzle pieces of words she left scattered on the paper.  I wondered if she ever wrote it somewhere else, if she ever shared it.  If she’d ever written more verses.

The next page had little stars doodled around the edges, framing the blank middle as if she’d intended to fill it with a quote or a poem.  The date in the corner was just the year, which left me wondering how much time sat between the sheets of paper.

The next one didn’t have a date at all.  Just a coffee stain on the bottom corner and three words, printed in the middle.

I’m so tired.

The coffee stain made the next pages stick to each other.  I carefully peeled them apart, drawn into a time long since over.  Irene had taken a black marker to the lined paper, filling in every other line to make solid black stripes.  The upper corner had a small scribble, like she’d found a pen and was testing it.

A pressed maple leaf slide out next, orange veins fading into red.  I held it by the stem to look at it before putting it back.  After that, finally, there was another page with words.

So much for that every week thing.

It’s just that

My mind is so full of a distant buzzing of thoughts

That the page stays blank

And my pen shakes.

I wish she were sitting next to me now.  I don’t think there’s anything I could say to that, but I wish I could put an arm around her shoulders.  Maybe she would feel a little less of whatever she was feeling then.  I turn the page.

It is filled.  Every inch is covered with one word over and over and over, some printed, some in cursive, and others written skinny or round or capitalized or boxy.

Courage

I look at each one, wondering what had happened, what had made her need to say it, write it, think it so hard that she didn’t stop until there was no more room.  I hope she got it.  I hope the rest of the pages aren’t empty.

I think my fingers shook a little as I flipped to the next page.  It held pencil sketches of boxes and flowers and apples.  On the bottom she’d written her name a couple times in cursive, the same way I do when I have the urge to use my pen but have nothing to write.

Next was a double facing page of tic-tac-toe games.  Most of them ended in a draw.  A few of them were scribbled over.  Then came a grocery list.  A page of math problems haphazardly scattered and solved.  A reminder that she would babysit over the weekend, with a phone number in the bottom corner.  The next set of pages were blank, save for bleed through from the other side.

Flipping past the blanks, my eyes were greeted with bright yellow colors.  Yellows painted over both pages with broad strokes, and black lettering scrawled across it.

Sometimes, I fill my sight with the color yellow,

To get me through the days

That feel like

Static.

The pages were stiff and rippled from the saturation of color, like she had painted coat after coat until her static turned to glitter.  I stared and stared, I’m not sure how long.  I’m not sure where the words hit me, but there was something deep inside that reached out for Irene’s words like they were the first it had ever heard.

I don’t remember turning the page.

She’d glued some fortune cookie slips on the page then outlined their edges with a pink highlighter.  The quotes on them were bizarre, and I wondered if she saved them because they were funny to her or because they were the weirdest ones she’d found.

‘Money will come soon, just not to you’

‘I’ve been freed’

‘You have powerful teeth’

‘I am only one cookie in a forest of sugar’

The rest of the page was filled with doodled question marks of different colors.  After that came pages with another nearly identical grocery list, doodles, the rough stubble left from a page being torn out, a list of birthdays, and filled-in lines of different colors.

I realized with a jolt that I was nearing the end.  The daylight had shifted, telling me I’d lingered on each page longer than I thought.  I didn’t want to leave Irene, or the bits of herself she’d left between each sheet of paper.  So few pages held her written thought, but each one shaped a bit more of her world for me to see.

The last page was edged in dots of different colors, clustering tightly at the very edges and then spacing out as they reach towards the middle.  For the first time since her third page, a date sat in the top corner, dated nearly two years later than her first entry.  In the very center, she’d written one last thought:

 

I think I’m ready to be

Excited

And

Curious

About life

Again.

They left me the manor when they died.  It’s been three months since I moved in, and I think it’s burying me alive.

The house holds a fresh memory of what it once was, with the keen knowledge it is that way no more.  It is not a good thing to live in a place that grieves its past.  It does not take kindly to change of ownership while it feels undone.

I didn’t touch the shadows, they creep over surfaces and claim their space with mournful hissing.  The neighbors watch me whenever I’m out, I can feel their assessment on my back.  They wonder if I’ll manage to fit in.  They haven’t seen it yet, but I don’t think I will.  I don’t think this manor house will accept my presence.

There are sheets covering nearly everything.  I didn’t bother to lift them, I didn’t need much in the way of furniture.  After a few weeks, they became ghosts that one shouldn’t upset.

I sleep in the guest suite.  The door to the master bedroom was closed when I arrived, and I have never opened it.  It would be an intrusion.  I’ve come to feel like a burglar in a house that I own.

Weeds close in along the drive, the entrance, the walls.  Curtains drape heavily over their windows.  There is no more air, no more sound, no more space in this enormous house.

Today, I cannot stand it.  Today, I wonder how much worse it could be.  Today, I cannot feel the fear over my suffocation.

I run through the shadows, throwing them into a tizzy as I fling the ghostly sheets off of furniture.  I’m sick of this haunted place, I’m sick of the silence it blankets over me.  Sheets rise and fall, shooting across the floor as if struggling to deny gravity and its inevitable pull.  Some swirl around my ankles, but I’m moving fast and they cannot catch hold of me.

They’ll think I’ve gone crazy.  Maybe I have.  They’ve seen this house, they’ve probably been waiting for the day it breaks me.

I throw open the windows and then run up the staircase.  I burst into the room that’s been closed since I came here, and I yell at the startled dust. “I live here now!  Get used to it!”

I slide down the banister and throw open the back door. It squeals in protest, slamming against the wall as I tromp outside.  The neighbors will probably stare.  I don’t care anymore.  Let them stare and shake their heads at me.

I’m pulling the weeds and nothing will make me stop.  I’m cutting down the tall grass and digging into the garden soil.  The wind that used to beat at my window every night now lifts my hair to cool my neck as I work.

It takes days, weeks, months, but I fill the manor with sound and air and light.  I sweep the whispers and groans and hissing into the floorboard cracks and stomp them down with dancing feet.  I trim back the bushes and pull out the weeds and bring back the flowers to their full bloom.  Butterflies fly through my open windows, pausing to flutter around my head on their way back out.

I fill the rooms with vases upon vases of lilacs.  Their scent fills the manor house, every corner and closet, until it settles into the very structure.

Some nights the house rages in protest.  Branches scratch against the windows in screeching harmony, the walls shift and groan like they’re going to drop the weight they hold, and the dark black shadows whisper terrible things.  I hide under my covers when it happens, coming up with poetry as I wait for it to pass.  And it does pass.  Much sooner than one might think.

I’m climbing the trees and the roof and the porch railing; just because I can, because no one can stop me, because doing so can’t scare me anymore.  I whistle back to birds and talk to the chipmunks and sing to my kitchen stove.

There is too much light to be found for me to get chased into some dark corner and stuck there.

They’ll say I’ve gone crazy.

I’ll tell them it was the best thing I’ve ever done.

Snow is dusting the road as I drive into town to pick him up.  It isn’t quite noon yet, but we decided this would be a better time than trying to reserve a place for dinner.  Neither of us wanted to be out very long after dark anyway.

All the shops are decorated in shades of red, succumbing to the falling white flakes of ice.  In fact, if it weren’t for the pink hearts, it would almost look like Christmas again.

I’m wearing my warm boots, even though the snow won’t last long; the forecast merely said ‘flurries’.  We plan on spending some of our time outside, and I don’t want to be in a rush to leave.

I pull into the parking lot and park the car.  He’s waiting inside.

The air is chilly, but without the biting wind that would make it miserable.  Wrapped in my nicest coat, I take more notice of the peace that seems to settle with the February weather.  My steps are soft, not wanting to break the winter spell as I enter the nursing home.

Granddad is waiting by the check-in counter, leaning on a cane and wearing his Sunday best.  He turns as I come in, and his smile lights up everything around him.

“There’s my Rosie!  Prettiest girl in town.”

His smile is contagious, lifting my spirits even higher as I wrap my arms around his neck. “You look real handsome, granddad.” I pull away and smile at the lady behind the counter. “Hi Anna.”

Anna pushes the sign-out sheet towards me, and I fill out granddad’s name as he pulls on his coat.

There’s a local diner close by that has run since longer than I can remember.  Granddad says it’s the standing winner of the town’s ‘last the longest’ contest, and most of the locals are passionate about it holding that title.  I can understand why.  The place is a part of home.

We get a booth together and order.  For a moment after the waitress leaves, I watch granddad as he watches the last of the snow float down.  I can see the distant past flickering in his eyes.

Then the moment is gone, and we’re smiling at each other and talking about the now’s and the this year’s and the somedays. He tells me about his friends he’s kept up with and how they’re doing, and I tell him about the new things I’m trying and the new people I’m getting to know.  Together, we are years upon years of living that stretches into the distant future.

It is a strange perspective to have.  A wide view—and, because it’s granddad—a real yet hopeful one.  It grounds me.

When we finished our plates and as we wait for the check, he puts his hand over mine and looks straight into my eyes. “You’re doing good Rosie.  Things feel slow, but that’s because life is often long.  You just keep on and keep on.  You’re doing great.”

All the tiny buzzing voices in my head settle, and for once I am present and I am focused and I am okay.

We go to the florist next.

The shop is busy with last-minute buyers, but we aren’t in a hurry and I’m still thinking over granddad’s words as he picks out a bouquet.  He loves daffodils and I love roses, but we both know that today is a day for peonies.  Pink ones, with a hint of purple.

We get a bunch of them, and a small box of chocolates.

The snow has already disappeared from the road, fading into the cracks and allys of town.  There is one last stop we want to make.

I pull into the cemetery and park the car.

Granddad carries the flowers and I carry the chocolates, walking side by side down the well-kept footpath.  Clouds are starting to break up, just enough for the day to brighten a little before the sun sinks down again.  We turn, and come to a stop in front of a gravestone.

Granddad leans on his cane, the flowers shaking from a slight tremor in his hand. “Hello Rosealeigh.”

The love of his life.  The laughter to his smile.  The original owner of my name.

“Hi grandmum.”

She loved the colors of autumn, the cadence of poetry, the twinkle in granddad’s eye.  She loved history, and rivers, and she loved pink peonies with hints of purple.

Granddad carefully places the bouquet, brushing off bits of dirt from the lettering on her stone.

I watch him, letting him take his time.

Granddad has always been a patient man.  I’ve always loved that about him, how he never got frustrated or hurried.  The only time I’ve heard him raise his voice was when I’d caught a fish the size of my face and he couldn’t wait to tell grandmum, who was all the way across the lake.

I wish I’d inherited his patience, but I’ve struggled too much with a sharp tongue and rising pulse for it to be natural.  For me, I have to be purposeful.  For me, I have to practice over and over until it comes out smooth.  For me, patience will have to be learned.

Granddad brushes the top of the gravestone with the softest, featherlight touch.  He has always been my greatest teacher.

I open the chocolates and we eat them together as we talk about grandmum and memories and the flickers of the past that stay in granddad’s eyes.  We stay until our words fall into a thoughtful silence.  We stay until my fingers are numb.

We stay there until the sunset begins to stretch out across the sky and the wind stirs from its slumber.

Granddad holds my arm as we follow the sunset to my car.

 

What are whispers for but secrets.

What are moonlit nights for but enchantments.

What are dreams for but adventure.

We are the children of summer nights, born when the fairies were dancing.  When the winter came, we stared out the windows wide-eyed as flakes of ice drifted from the sky.  Prickling cold nipped at our ears and toes, sending us running to find thick stockings and warm hats.  We wished for our summer with chilled breath.

Winter days were piercing and cold and waiting, holding back the trees and grass and flowers as if putting them to sleep so they could wake in a kinder season.

But then the sun fell, and night began long before we would be sent to bed.

Summer nights were for falling exhausted into slumber, waiting for the day to come and sweep us off our feet again.

Winter nights, however, spread open welcoming arms, inviting us to a strange new world.  Winter nights were for doing without deadlines, they were for trying without thought of failure, and they were for questioning without fear of knowing.  Darkness came quickly and lingered into the edges of morning, and even so, we found ourselves sleeping less and less.

It was a fast discovery we fell upon, realizing how much we wanted to do and learn, how very far we wanted to go.

What are whispers for but to leave the sleeping undisturbed.

What are moonlit nights for but to pile into the same bed and tell stories.

What are dreams for but to chase after.

The chill air gave us clear minds, the growing dark gave us dreamy thoughts.  The biting days sent our blood racing, the lingering nights wrapped us in limitless possibilities.  It was a good thing for summer to come eventually, or we would become strange creatures, hungering after impossible dreams.

We are the children of summer nights, and it is important for us to return home after a time.

No longer was there doing without deadlines, but there was doing in the sight of everyone and getting it done.  No longer was there trying without thought of failure, but there was trying and trying and moving forward because of it.  No longer was there questioning without fear of knowing, but there was questioning with the satisfaction of landing upon answers.

No longer were there wakeful nights; but there were restful ones, preparing us for the challenges of day.

We were born with the love for warmth and light, but how quickly we have fallen into a love for cold and dark as well.  I wonder how it is for the children of winter, how strange they must have felt when they found themselves in unusually long golden days.  I hope they grow to love it like we do, for what are changes for but to learn.

What are seasons for but to press forward time.

What are differences for but to grow.

If you wish to enter the forest of Nought, be kind to the fog that creeps along the edges of your path.  It waits for nightfall so it can spread without fear of beams of sunlight piercing through and evaporating its mist.  It does no harm and only curls against your ankles as a way of saying hello.

Do not fear the trees that bend downwards, their branches heavy with their purple blossoms; they do not reach out to you unless it is to guide you to safety.  Inhale the air around you, it is fresh and sweet and gentle.

Be sure to stop when you see two trees bent away then back towards each other, forming a teardrop doorway.  Do not be afraid to enter, the vicious fairies do not dwell in the forest any longer.  By now, I’m not even sure if the good ones are still around.  Fairies do not stay in one forest for many centuries before moving on.

Through the teardrop doorway, there sits a glistening pool of deep blue water. Tiny streams trickle down to it from every direction, causing the only disturbance to its surface.  Cast your gaze upon it, for if you are to enter the forest of Nought, you should know the things this pool can show you.

I have looked many times.  It does not show any reflection of you.  It does not show your desires or your future or any such thing that could drive you mad.  The pool is a storyteller, and the stories are of the forest in a different time.

It shows a girl with bare feet and freckles on her nose, planting saplings with tight purple buds.  Around her, the tallest tree is maybe as high as her shoulders.  There is so much blue sky above her.

It shows an old couple standing close together with smiles on their faces, holding hands as they watch children play with chipmunks and rabbits.  If you gaze hard enough, you might hear a faint echo of their laughter.  The trees are tall but slender, a grown man could warp his hands around their trunks.

The pool shows an acorn with the prettiest yellow ribbon tied around it, laid carefully on a moss-covered tree stump.

It shows little creatures with wings that look like leaves and eyes that look like mischief peeking out from behind mushrooms.

It shows a young man with wire-framed glasses and a leather-bound notebook, telling the trees their names in a language far older than he had a right to know.

It shows a ring of mushrooms, still and silent in a carpet of petals.

It shows a man with thinning gray hair and a cane of twisted wood saying goodbye to an ivory-colored unicorn.

It shows a sapling poking through a loop in a faded old ribbon.

The forest of Nought is old, and you are not the first to walk through it, though it may feel that way now.  I have heard some say it feels so full of life, more than what they can see, and I know they did not stop to gaze upon the pool.

Yes, I tell them, it is full of life.  It has collected life for as long as it has grown.  It has changed; but if you look hard enough, and if you know its past, you will see the echoes of what used to be still lingering.  Making it what it has become.

If you wish to enter the forest of Nought, please enter.  It welcomes the new.  It cherishes the old.  It loves to see more life.

Do not be afraid.

If you take the time to look, the forest is not difficult to understand.

It is midsummer and my hair is sticking to my neck.  The air is a living thing, and when I wave my hand through it, it dances between my fingertips.  Cicadas are screaming in an unearthly harmony, loud but invisible.

I’ve only ever seen a handful of them in my life.

I’m walking through the meadow that stretches behind our property, wading through overgrown grass and blooming purple sweet clover.  The sight of their blossoms puts the taste of sugar on my tongue, but never strong enough to linger if I think about it.

Summertime is like the springtime it came from, but slightly off.  Slightly mysterious.  Slightly more.  But only if you’re looking hard.

Only if you pay attention.

Afternoon thunderstorms are when you notice it the most.  Time travels in a funny way, blurring the lines between attentive and dreaming.  Lightning flashes leave with the impression that you’ve seen into another world, but the memory has already fled.  The scent of rain is cleansing, but what it has cleaned I can never put my finger on.

I think there are things hidden in the cracks of nature.

The sun’s warmth is settling into my bones, burrowing into the very marrow, like it’s getting stored away for winter.  I can’t remember feeling cold, but I can picture a tall glass of water with ice cubes clinking against the sides, and the way it fills me after a day in the sun.

I think there is more to discover than I’ll ever live to find.

Summer nights are alive, and they pull at me when I start for bed.  Sometimes, when the night is full and my heart is restless, I will sit outside in my pajamas and watch for shooting stars instead of sleeping.  It is a different kind of rest.

One that is full of wishes.

Cicadas are screaming, the air is alive, and the taste of sugar haunts my tongue.  Summer is here, and it promises forever.

Under the sun, it is such an easy thing to believe.

Summer sky full of the deepest of blues,

I’m under cottonwood trees without my shoes.

White fluff falls through the air real slow,

I feel the kiss of cottonwood snow.

 

Distancing myself from noise that’s amassed,

I can sort through my crazy mind at last.

A layer of white, soft beneath toes,

I kick my feet through cottonwood snow.

 

I take hold of each thought and weigh its worth,

Keeping some, and tossing the rest to earth.

I close my eyes as the sun treads slow,

Dancing barefoot in cottonwood snow.