Impending

The holiday weekend almost emptied out the town, and the streets looked like years ago before there was so much traffic. An almost endless layer of thin clouds failed to keep the heat down, but also failed to prevent shadows, and the shade of the shadows became precious. A breeze would be precious, too, but none has come. Evening is full of still, warm air. In my back yard the air is heavy with the scent of jasmine. It took a long time to arrive this year, but now that it's here it's making up for the lost time, flooding the yard with sweet, heavy fragrance.

I smell summer's immanent arrival in that perfume. Spring is melting away. Next week will bring days in the nineties and then in the hundreds, with nights in the seventies. I am not looking forward to that. I'll be hunkering down with my windows and drapes closed all day, swigging iced drinks and dreaming of April rain. I'm sure the rain is gone for the year, unless we get a thunderstorm, which I'd rather not have. It would only steam up the sweltery air. I will just endure the heat and dream of April and of October; the first the certainty that is gone, and the second the possibility that may or may not come. But anything is better than May giving way to June, even if it's only a conjured image.

Where is that lemonade?


( Sunday Verse )