(written during the afternoon of Monday, September 6th)
It’s late afternoon on Labour Day. I’ve savouring a hard apple cider in a frosted glass with a twist of lime. Listening to I’ll Be Your Girl by the Decemberists. Reading a friend’s exquisite-beyond-words-I -can-formulate po.ems. To sound trite, she takes my breath away . . . . And, yes, if we don’t scrawl, skitter, scratch, we go Poe mad.
There is the lovely staccato of acorns bouncing off the roof. It’s been two years since the oaks in my neighbourhood had an abundance of acorns. Those falling now are greenish and small; but there is the promise of a nice harvest for the squirrels.
And promise is something to hold on to; when times seem bleak, it’s those small slivers of hope; the infinite possibilities.
I had a wonderful conversation with my friend in long term care; she is becoming “more herself” each time we talk. This week, I might get the chance to visit her.
And our “grandkoi” continue to grow and thrive. Curly, Larry, Moe and Zippy are developing their own special personalities. The water lettuce I purchased from California in the spring thrives, too. Their root networks help to filter the water; provide shade and shelter.
Time to slice another piece of lime, get a glass out of the freezer, and think about supper . . .
image: puck milder on unsplash