changing inside as well.
With soft words
And telling myself a story.
Does that make a story
Thrown off my rhythm,
so important to me,
must find my voice for speaking my gentle truth
and being queen of how my day is going to go.
To be clear, the gorgeous summer out here with the amazing fresh breezes and perfect shade of blue? It is indeed how I want my day to go, but I can’t actually take credit for that part.
It’s hard to fit all the Nothing into each day!
But it sure is fun to try.
Someone gave me a tip yesterday, we argued over whether that was appropriate, but I let her win.
What do I even do with that now?
I think that I’m going to put each bill into a different pocket of a different thing — blue jeans, winter coat, summer purse — to be found with delight three different times.
Also, the ice cream cone place only takes cash.
Listening to voices
But it’s not the usual fare.
This time it’s myself.
How passing strange.
The Summer Triangle is setting.
Five in the morning and I can see the stars;
five in the morning and the Summer Triangle is setting.
I do not wish to move on from summer, but I’m not fighting it as I usually do.
There are things to do.
The small mania of the first day of term has passed, but even so it was a summer day, and therefore holy.
Wholly holy, this moment in this between-time as they all are.
I am glad to be known for a not-tidy meadow.
I am glad to preserve the milkweed for my neighbors who like to eat it.
My hunger has wandered off somewhere. I think I will let it go and wait for its return before calling it with food.
with ablutions and devotions
and it turns out that the whole day is devotions,
both the cleaning and the stillness.
The silence is complete in the “now I can hear all the meadow noises” sense
and the space is expansive
and choosing to do each thing feels like an act of power and authority.
Caring for my home,
caring for my own spirit,
caring for the dogs.
Blessing this tiny piece of world called myself.
If I follow this morning’s fancy, I shall title each unit like the chapters of Three Men In A Boat:
In which Hens may be Good Layers, yet they neither prevaricate nor recline.
The Comma in its Guise as Harmless.
Abaft, Abeam, Athwart: Useful Prepositions for the Edification of Young Midshipmates.
The Comma revealed in its Despotic Cruelty.
Not to mention The Dog.
I’ll go with intriguing for now.
It is intriguing how poorly I sat with “free of weapon”.
That’s… not all right
In my gut.
Am I so very afraid that the image of riding on, weaponless, makes me shake and sweat?
Or is there an old story in my heart of one whose dangerous arms accompanied them from demon to dragon for so long a lifetime that sword and axe and step and aim were all one smooth calculus.
I shall return to the blank page.
The Rider is not pale
but rosy and bursting with life
with salt-and-pepper beard
and hand extended with a smile of welcome.
The Horse is not pale
swishing his tail
He is strong and broad and perfectly capable of carrying two
so free of baggage or weapon.
Sgiobalta is playing with her moonshadow.
And I know it’s supposed to be a chore,
but oh how I love the smell of cut grass
and the spotting of Queen Anne’s Lace to go around it
and of milkweed to go around it
and those little yellow flowers that look like balloons to go around them.
Also I leave where daisies and Black-Eyed Susans grow together, because that is clearly good luck,
Sorcha and Dorcha.
And I leave the mint alone on the west side and I leave the thyme alone on the east side,
and the chamomile on the south,
because aren’t they lovely ground covers?
Perhaps I am not so much mowing as curating.
That’s all right, then.
We’ve already had a walkies
and our kibble-and-coffee
and our first couch snuggle.
Now is for lying between Mamaidh’s feet
and watching a birdie on the lawn
without even woofing.
Good dog, Max.
Steps forward, steps back, steps forward again.