On how it is
This morning I awoke to unexpected blue, and sunlight shearing the edges off the arbutus, and brazen slops of gold soaking the lawns. Everything is thick and warm, but mostly lazy, and everywhere there's skin and winter fat, bared almost belligerently, mocked into sallow lumps by summer. The girls toasting on the lawn outside are whiter than fallen clouds.
But "a word is elegy to what it signifies", and summer is pronounced with words like warm, juice, gold, drowse, strawberries. I waded through the warmth and retreated into the cool drowsy shadows, where I gorged on Hass and his lush, intimate words of Praise, and strawberries whose juice stained my teeth and mind reddish gold, and married my memory to summer. Everything is ripe and full.
But early afternoon is too early for composing retrospect on a day that is still largely unwritten. So, here I end.