Sunday, September 11, 2011

I feel so fickle, deciding to tell the truth. Then being silent for so long. It has been a dark time, despite the sun. I try to be involved in the world, but I struggle. I decided to tell the whole story, but now the hot, orange sun is shining. Even though we are still in Portland, it feels like The City of Angels at Michaelmas Time. I am distracted. There are summer fires east of Portland, casting a searing glow upon everything. The sunrise has no ribbons of violet or pink, but just a deep, penetrating vermillion effulgence. The days are dry and hot. The grass is crispy and dead. As I sit on the porch steps in the late afternoon, I am hot. Like all the way to the bone hot. These are the days I long for in February. To be so hot, I am miserable. I have always lived in simple abodes, usually sans dishwasher or air conditioning. I have learned to love the shifting of the extremes in weather without being lulled into complacency by endless cold air or houses sealed tight. So, here I am and for now, this is what I have been doing:

Ripening Ground Cherries. Like teeny tiny Pineapples.

All the neighborhood babes are out playing in the sun.

Blackberry Pies are on the menu.

A little en plein aire.

A little puppy love.


Denise Emanuel Clemen said...

Beautiful photos. Your eyes are finding beauty.

Christopher Guilfoil said...

Here's one back at you P.
~ Chris G.

I Ran Out Naked In The Sun
by Jane Hirschfield

I ran out naked
in the sun
and who could blame me
who could blame

the day was warm

I ran out naked
in the rain
and who could blame me
who could blame

the storm

I leaned toward sixty
that day almost done
it thundered

I wanted more I
shouted More
and who could blame me
who could blame

had been before

could blame me
that I wanted more

"I Ran Out Naked In The Sun" by Jane Hirschfield, from Come, Thief. © Alfred A. Knopf, 2011