A hot, humid, summer in spring day.
The peonies drop their heads like us,
but theirs are heavy with peak blooms
and we are still hoping for buds,
new growth, a cooling rain, night rest.
Overnight, a field of yellow and white.
Dent-de-lion, “lion’s tooth” for leaf not flower.
Years ago, blossoms boiled, yeast, sugar, slices
of orange and lemon fermented, and then
we would siphon summer off the lees.
“And there, row upon row, with the soft gleam of flowers opened at morning, with the light of this June sun glowing through a faint skin of dust, would stand the dandelion wine. Peer through it at the wintry day – the snow melted to grass, the trees were reinhabitated with bird, leaf, and blossoms like a continent of butterflies breathing on the wind. And peering through, color sky from iron to blue.
Hold summer in your hand, pour summer in a glass, a tiny glass of course, the smallest tingling sip for children; change the season in your veins by raising glass to lip and tilting summer in”
― Ray Bradbury, Dandelion Wine
The fireflies are dark. Katydids are quiet.
In the orchard, fruit fall startles deer.
Wind chimes sound oddly dull single notes.
Window cricket singing a death song too early.
Temperature falling, pull a blanket around you.