We still enjoy
the coolness of early June. A grey haze still shades us. The seasons run like clockwork, yet it still seems more like spring than the buzz of full summer approaching. Our days are as long as they are going to get - the full length of them is ours, the full rush of our dreams, the full shove of our desires. Yet too this lingering coolness to be enjoyed.
We have a grey haziness, a temperature about 62 degrees, a swarming greenness, the sounds of birds. My desire is no desires. I want to give up wanting. Yet you cannot demand that, you can only accept it as a gift when it comes, if it comes. It is the paradox - the caring, the not-caring. There is no gift when you've asked for it. It must come of its own, freely; even so you prepare yourself to recognize it when you see it, to be ready to benefit when it finds you. There is nothing I want but emptiness, and I don't want emptiness too much.
Our peonies along the garage, red and white heads full and magnificent, stems bent under the heaviness, petals wind-blown and lovely, the front edge of warmth cheering them.
North of Fairwater, a small field of rye is headed out, creating a light green surface above the darker stems, like clouds floating above the dark, productive land.