Summer is here and it is hot. The heat is sensual and unpleasant. It wraps around your skin and smothers your arms and your legs and your sticky back. These are the days of numerous showers. Park benches are full of dazed and silent breathers. Men can barely keep their shirts on.
The last of the wildflowers is dying this week. In flower beds and planters in town, small tame garden plants keep producing brilliant buds, but the countryside is golden, brown or deep green. Honest, self-sufficient plants in the woods or on the hillsides have no more time for flowers.
So today we go back to springtime - pollination time - when the sun was warm and promising and we could barely wait to get to the beach. Now, when the heat holds us captive, we keep our eyes on the wobbly wheel of the seasons. We imagine balancing on its thin spine and running, day after day, one foot after the next, spinning until we get to winter and can dream again of hot summer days.