I’m picking up the pace on a wool sweater I’m knitting — a roundabout way of realizing the patches of red on some maples (and no longer just the sick or stressed) mean I actually will be wanting to wear those knitted strands before too long.
Still, summer folks fill my library these days. They all have houses along Woodbury’s lakes, or visit people who have houses along lakes. They’re full of good will, polite, curious about our winters, ready to swap tales of their winters. One family had twins last October. The parents plop the babies on the library floor, and take a deep and exhausted breath.
Driving home, just before the swamp separating Woodbury from Hardwick, the sun hits the goldenrod just so, with scrubby pink clover along the roadside. Rags of mist amble along the swamp, around the bend in the mountains.
For a moment, it’s just me and the road, the gold and the emerald and transient strands of cloud. August, at this very moment. At home, the girls have made blueberry pie, and that’s equally fleeting.
All the way I have come
all the way I am going
here in the summer field
6 thoughts on “Sometime in August”
So beautifully written.
Thank you, Maggie!
Appreciate you noticing the (early) goldenrod. At least here in the South, there are mid and late species that will “repaint” your road scene through late October/early November. As usual, nice “cherry on top” with Buson.
Hope you enjoyed the blueberry pie. GT
By late October/early November, flowers are long gone in Vermont — the more reason to eat blueberry pie now. Hope the summer’s been as lovely in the South as it’s been in New England.
Another insightful musing and perfect pairing with the Buson… and the photo is exquisite!
Thanks for the compliments, Nancy!