It's here! Summer, dusk, grass, leaves, green. Visitors, mint, fans, bugs, lakes, rivers, screens.
Last night the lightning blew our phone and modem, blew my parents' inverter, fence charger, phone line. We cooked marshmallows over an open flame while the storm rolled in, took cover
under the porch eaves, kept away from the windows.
Avah Margaret floats on her back now, head tipped back, arms flat out, trusting.
Owen Cricket lives naked in the woods, cooking pizzas made of sticks and leaves.
Our garden offers: kale, chard, peas, basil, mint, cilantro.
On its way: sun golds, carrots, cabbage, broccoli, beans.
I'm no gardener (as any of you who have stuck around here know), but alas, a garden!
The room we've been building for three years (unfinished walls, unfinished floors)
holds: a guest bed, old friends.
An essay of mine was just accepted.
The old phone we had stashed away in a drawer seems to work. Today: cooler air, a breeze. Up here on the hill I hear it rustling in the maples, whistling
in the cooler, darker pines.
My grandmother's ghost, rising. Later: cool drinks, cool water, mint in