When the sun retreats, it gathers color from the landscape. Vaporizing the chicory and fireweed, the coral tassels of grass and the bluets, liquefying before our eyes that which we touched only moments before with our breath, like a vacuum where the rainbows go, tucked safely from the night. 

 

Holding the essence of the landscape for tomorrow, it never fails to spill its harvest among the meadows once again. If only I could retreat behind the hills, saturated with the essence of our travels, I might understand how the sun can spill its fortune on the wind come morning.

 

 

 

 

Chapter Seven: July

 

Weather Potential: Unpredictable days of rain, heavy at times; sun, intense at times; high winds or no wind; heat (finally); cold (not yet!); all of the above in one afternoon.

 

Suitable attire for coffee stroll:

-Skirt (cotton—must tug slightly on hips when wet)

-Sandals (strappy, no heel, as near to naked as possible)

-Black-T (quick drying)

-Sunglasses (multipurpose: push onto head to hold hair back in high wind)

 

Preparation:

-Shave legs. Use light sesame oil to moisturize. No make-up. No hairspray. No curlers.

-Place small moleskin journal, gel pen, and enough money for one shot of espresso in a Ziploc bag neatly tucked in the small pouch of your city-sized backpack.

 

Enjoy:

-When it starts to pour, don’t huddle under an awning; don’t shy away from warm rain. Walk chin up noting the way water pours from the center of a leaf—its deepest vein.

-Note the way your eyelashes meet and gently cling when you blink… the way warmth rises in cheeks cold to one’s touch: this is the way petals rouge.

-Let rain soak your long hair, noting the way it feels when gravity pulls water from your scalp through the ends. 

-When you return to the stone steps at your sunroom, disrobe and wring the rain from your skirt into the garden where pale peonies still bloom.

-Make tea. Cradle the bowl with both palms while curled in the crook of your couch, a good book waiting.

 

 

 

 

 

The wind is coming from the west today. Fifteen miles an hour makes me guess that there are whitecaps on the water where we paddled calm. Loons are congregating on Lake Champlain. Kettles of hawks, flocks of thrushes, rushes of the glittery hummingbirds have already passed in the time of monarchs. Maples are letting go. I walk in a shifting world of soil-to-be, still papery and slick, those leaves the color of apples falling by the side of the road. Swirling, the breeze carries me to remember the trip we made with our words. Fall promises to be beautiful. I can already see it fly.

 

 

 

 

 

 

you woke

and twisted

rearranging my leg

crossed over yours

rearranging my head

tucked into your “V”—

shoulder and chest folded

just the right way

to amplify

the beating of your heart

my ears

are still listening

my calves

are still waiting

for the next time

something I can’t see

stirs you to move

stirs me to wake

stirs me

to realize

this night isn’t over

 

 

 

 

 

He was a man who considered notes of love frivolous after the first. Once a man had declared himself (like a rock), his truth should be expected to remain.

 

She was a woman who considered notes of love essential after the first. She understood how fires burn.

 

They sat in silence by the fountain, as they often did, each thinking one’s own thoughts but convincing themselves they were thinking together.

 

At a quarter of one, he kissed her goodbye and drove away. The paper bag she had packed for him sat motionless in the thick, Texas air.

 

She could feel the road open as she opened it, all still intact, including the note fastened with a red ribbon.

 

“To me, Love, you are new everyday. For you, I know, this is not the case. Eat well. Be well. I am on my way. The horizon has changed.”