I love this photo, even if it is completely disingenuous. Looking at it, you might think that blue skies have arrived here in the northwest, but that wouldn’t be true. Instead, we got a rare sun-break Sunday. Long enough for IZ to mow our lumpy yard despite his head cold. Long enough for me look busy snapping photos instead of weeding our overgrown flower beds. But not long enough to fool anyone into thinking warmth is on its way. Certainly not long enough to get me out of my funk. I’m waiting, Spring. And I don’t like to wait. Margaret was right to dub this month Junuary!
Anyhow, I don’t have much to say. Vicki dropped by to tell me to update and now she’s taunting me with the backsides of Sun Bears on her site. OH THE IRONY. As I’m a compliant first born, I tend to do what I’m told—especially when told by an authority figure. I’ll let her explain what makes her the boss of me, because I sure as heck don’t know! So, I’m blogging about our cold weather and the lack of sun. And she’s visually cracking wise about her weather. I resent that, darling. I DO!
Except I don’t. I adore Sun Bears. I adore the sun. I adore the BEARS. And Stanford sucks. Ahem.
So, this photo… I was trying to snap a photo of a mysterious Columbine that sprouted up in my front planter. I didn’t plant it. I suspect renegade vermin poop. I figure, if deer are going to munch the heads off all my flowers, it seems only fitting that they might plant something in return. It’s a small gift and since this town won’t let me hunt inside city limits, it’s going to have to do.
This Columbine is magical. It’s really dainty and delicate but difficult to photograph. In desperation, I shoved my lens beneath it and snapped the photo. The flower, obviously, blurred. And it’s apparent that I need to prune our variegated willow. But that sky. . . that sky sings to me. And for a moment, you know, I almost thought I had found a patch of blue to carry me. But it didn’t last. I fell into the grasp of a capricious lover and knew rejection. Grey skies have returned and I’ve been compelled to put on socks. I hate socks. Spring will not stop toying with me.
Summer, on the other hand, is tender. She is kind and she caring. Warm and benevolent. She takes her time. She doesn’t rush anything, savoring every moment. She sings bird song and smells of jasmine. She doesn’t blow down houses or flood plains. She never toys with your emotions. You know just where you stand with her. Lovingly embraced, adored, appreciated. In her eyes, you are always beautiful with your brown toes sticking out of your sandals. And even though you know this love you share will not last forever, it doesn’t matter. You’re not thinking about that, anyhow. You’re too warm to care. Too happy to notice. Too content, if that’s possible.
Summer is tender. But I fear she is going to be late this year. I fear she wandered off to some tropical local and cannot be bothered to return. I fear she is cavorting with some other lover, some other person who always looks beautiful—their brown toes sticking out of their sandals.
I fear she’s figured out that I have ugly feet.