Daisies and wild asters, the tangle of grass, the swallows swooping low. I am homesick for this very thing: for summer, the way summer is, for August and everything after.
There are dishes to be washed and shirts to fold as I rock sliently in our screened in patio, the quiet full of sound: frogs, the trilling of evening birds, the hum of mosquitoes.
And finally without meaning to, my eyes find the first star of the evening as fireflies mark the path back inside, the air sweet with the fragrance of honeysuckle, a filament of grace.
“Ah, summer - what power you have to make us suffer and like it”