The Four Seasons
Summer Sundays are introspective. I spent the last one sitting in our garden, eyes half closed, half open, watching the halo of pollinators crowning the towering, flowering Joe Pye weed.
I’m attempting to master the difficult art of sitting still. I’ve already vacated my lawn chair to get a little table, then iced tea, a large book on charcoal barbecuing, and a second, smaller one on the tiny lives of mosses. Eventually persuaded by lethargy, I observe the want of anything else pass by like the sparse clouds dawdling across the blue sky.