ALMANAC

August is a sunflower labyrinth; constellations of black-eyed Susans; the first yellow leaf, descending.

Summer fades like fawn spots: subtly. It’s hard to notice when you’re in the thick of it. When earth bursts with coneflower and primrose. When the forest floor is flush with chanterelles and electric red-orange cinnabars.

We are cradled by lushness.

Wasn’t it yesterday that we were weaving among wild bramble, plucking warm berries, enlivened by the prickly kiss of thorn? Weren’t the fireflies just twinkling, making magic of these balmy nights? Honeysuckle lingers in the sultry air. Bumblebees bustle as if summer, too, were gaining speed.

The garden continues its wild giving. Thistle goes to seed. Apples begin knocking upon the sweetly turning earth.

Back when the fields were soft with daisies, spotted fawns hid in plain sight, silent as dappled sunlight. Then, they knew only mother’s milk and stillness. Now, they know of woody browse, wildflowers, movement.

Hummingbirds flit among cardinal flowers.
The carnival of butterflies delight in all directions.
A golden leaf slow-dances toward the forest bed.

In our nectar-drunken state, we are living beyond time. Dreaming, almost. Lulled by the hum of bees and a purple blur of blazing star.

Summer holds us to her chest. We want for nothing. But something is shifting in the soil that we can’t yet name.

Perhaps it’s the tender ache of being weaned. Of sensing the inevitable. Of letting yourself get swept up in the dreamlike wonder of a seemingly endless summer.