Forgotten summer

As seasons go, sitting on the deck this morning I think this is my favorite. Not quite fall, just a smidge past summer. Mild, breezy. Last night’s rain lingers on the air and when I take a deep cleansing breath, I can taste it embedded in the air. The drips on the deck roof are making that sweet sound that makes me want to take an early nap. Then, even as the morning sun begins to poke his head out, a distant low rumble comes from the south. The clouds bash and insult each other into a fit of fake anger. Such a rowdy, gut level impressive sound. I want to laugh really loud, high jump into the currents and ride it out with them.

Thinking about spring, though, gentle, but also turbulent. Both beautiful and undecided, unsettled. The scents of freshly stirred dirt and of new leaves and the tiniest early-blue flowers hidden beneath the crusty winter grass. But then, there’s also the dash to the cellar, waiting for the wail of the sirens to shout the all-clear. All over town heads are peeping out of the underground sanctuaries and safe rooms like so many ground hogs sniffing the air for the scent of safety.

But I also relish the anticipation of cold and crispy. The sparkling time of the winter. Wrapped in a blanket again right here on this deck in the early morning with coffee. Or on the other end of the day, the earlier-than-usual twilight we’re not yet used to. I want to watch the flames in the fire pit turn the leftover Fall into smell-good ashes. Soon the unexpected winter chill comes sliding through and the blanket just isn’t quite enough. And, besides, the chill turned my steaming cup of hot chocolate into cold-ish chocolate milk, like left over from breakfast. How rude.

I haven’t forgotten you, Summer.

I just have nothing in common with you.

So sorry, girl.

I’m going in the house where it’s cool.