As spring accelerates toward summer, everything is growing and blooming and nesting.
Sun is the catalyst, speeding life along.
Sometimes a shadow overhead interrupts the yard’s chirrup and flutter.
But spring resumes when the danger has passed.
Some afternoons turn sleepy with increasing heat.
But evenings are cool and mosquito-free, perfect for exploring.
Perfect for sitting outside with a book, too. I haven’t been doing much writing, but I’ve been reading a lot, working my way through a stack of nonfiction, historical fiction, classic sci-fi, and poetry. Now I want to add a few graphic novels to my shelf. Any suggestions?
Today has been almost summer-like. Very warm, very breezy, and very sleepy. A paper wasp worked under the eaves, a damselfly hunted in the irises, and something mantis-like prowled through the hydrangea. I did small, invisible chores in the house and in my office. Now I’m ready to find a quiet corner, curl up with the cats, and open the new book on my nightstand. Page one…
In case you’re wondering, the book is Rocks of Ages by Stephen Jay Gould.
Reading as a Sacred Art
If the words said nothing at all
You would still read meaning
In the spaces between them
Feeling your way through tangled text
Pauses and pronunciation
Bend under your touch
Familiar words flex into phrases
As hard to know as a stranger’s yesterday
Anything I meant to say
Is obscured by what you meant to hear
And the words remain mute
Captive in the spaces between us
Unable to convey
What I am saying
And not saying
The words do not speak
If anything spoke
It could not be written
Muttering along the margin
Reciting in the tongue of Eden
The first rule of words
Which supersedes both our meanings
That innocence and truth
Cannot lie together
Now we understand
As long as we speak in Eden
Say rib and serpent and lost
What you hear
Was not written here
Could not exist
Until it was lost and found
In your own experience
And if the words said nothing at all
We would still need meaning
In the spaces between