seasons

a vignette

Summer is an illusion: what actually occurs is heat, lots of raspberries, not enough swimming, and painting the house. The turn happens on a dime. One evening’s soft drizzle, icing over the generative garden beds like the most delicate confectioner’s sugar glaze, followed by a baby blue window of the next morning’s sky and then a certain north breeze: the first south wind blows all these in like a wisher blows out dandelion seeds. What lies ahead? What will actually occur in fall and winter? “Time will tell.” And yet, time also is an illusion.