When August burning low
Rosemary is in Brockville, Ontario and Casi (her cat) and I are alone in our Vancouver Kits home. It is hot. Then it rains. Then it is hot again. I love the heat and sleep on the sheets without my night gown. I am emptying the refrigerator by eating what’s in it without bothering to shop for food. That feels good but doing it alone is no fun.
I go to the garbage and place the empty bottles of Argentine rosé that I enjoyed with Portland baroque bassist Curtis Daily. His playing of Ginastera’s La danza de la moza donosa on our baby grand Chickering is in my memory.
In the back lane I looked at the monumental sunflowers that our oldest daughter Alexandra gives us every spring as small plants. I deadheaded them, which is a sad task made easier by using the opportunity to scan them for this blog.
Fall is around the corner but it will be a happier one just as soon as my Rosemary returns.
Further In Summer Than The Birds — Poem by Emily Dickinson
1068
Further in Summer than the Birds
Pathetic from the Grass
A minor Nation celebrates
Its unobtrusive Mass.
No Ordinance be seen
So gradual the Grace
A pensive Custom it becomes
Enlarging Loneliness.
Antiquest felt at Noon
When August burning low
Arise this spectral Canticle
Repose to typify
Remit as yet no Grace
No Furrow on the Glow
Yet a Druidic Difference
Originally published at blog.alexwaterhousehayward.com.
