The winter and spring were awash with travel, small trips and large adventures. This summer is about home. About taking the experiences, deaths, joys, changes, sounds, sites and shifts and sitting with them until they are part of me.
This is not to say I am not busy, this is not to say that my days are not full. There is work to do, money to raise, events to organize, News to track and legislators to phonePages to write and poems to send and a novel to revise. There are dishes to wash after the meals have been made and eaten. There is laundry to do. There are books to read and letters to write. Grand boys to delight in.
But this summer above all there is a home to tend to. The home I live in and the one that lives in me. Each time I return I become more attached to this small piece of land. To the rise leading up to the house, the woods that surround, the ever changing pond and the light.
Yesterday morning there was a haze across the filed and a cardinal as red as only a cardinal can be against all the verdant green. As if it the world, or this small part of it, was saturated hue and tint. Everything glowed inside out.
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