First coffee of the day, a patch of sun coming through the window, a lazy cat stretching its limbs within hand’s reach for the occasional petting, the early morning mist lifting as the radio plays toccata and fugue in d minor once again. The cheap flooring is peeling off. My brand new socks look terrible after just one wear. I think of the toasted bagel I will have later – with the next cup of instant coffee that tastes of routine and it ain’t bad. It’s thursday, there’s nothing special at all going on but I am happy and right this moment I feel privileged.
what is bad now, is bad now only. what is good now, is good always.
It’s been so hot lately that I’m afraid to look at my Accuweather app in case it forecasts the literal end of the world. A few days ago I had to take off my (light) cardigan while out and about and now it’s official: the hell season is upon us. Wake me up when september ends.
The very end of spring is green and white. Country lanes are illuminated with cow parsley, a delicate foam of tiny petals in a sea of pale green. Every year, this is what tells me summer is near. A certain kind of sadness for the dying spring, a certain kind of hope for drier days (warm and light don’t tempt me), a certain kind of longing for the autumn that will follow. Fields of cow parsley are ticking clocks of the seasons and life; fresh young flowers blossoming and dancing on the wind now, but just like everything else soon they’ll wither and die.
“Your hands lie open in the long fresh grass,— The finger-points look through like rosy blooms: Your eyes smile peace. The pasture gleams and glooms ‘Neath billowing skies that scatter and amass. All round our nest, far as the eye can pass, Are golden kingcup fields with silver edge Where the cow-parsley skirts the hawthorn-hedge. ‘Tis visible silence, still as the hour-glass.
Deep in the sun-searched growths the dragon-fly Hangs like a blue thread loosened from the sky:— So this wing’d hour is dropt to us from above. Oh! clasp we to our hearts, for deathless dower, This close-companioned inarticulate hour When twofold silence was the song of love.”