Stasis qualifies as the only realistic impossibility; change, however trite I sound reminding myself of it, an unavoidable constant. But I do not experience change as a constant. Maybe my imagination’s anemic or I really do need those new glasses The Muse insists I get to replace these cracked lenses. Things seemed the same until they didn’t. Now they’ll feel different until they feel the same again. This dance happens at lateral light speed, not a radiating flash but as if a flashlight was duct taped to the back of a tortoise slowly crawling north to south, then back again.

Summer seems the cruelest season at this latitude, bringing too many zucchinis and altogether too much light. Light dominates even nighttime, bullying breezes into submission with radiating heat, encouraging humidity to bloom. I co-exist, if I can fairly call sequestering an existence. A fog moves in between the storm windows and the double-hungs, blurring perspective. The cats hibernate and shed. I wear dark glasses everywhere.

This morning, the shift announced his presence. The calendar lags by several weeks but the apples outnumber the peaches at the farm market now. I have survived another season without a single visit to the dreaded beach. The yard looks every bit as ragged as I feel.

I’ll pull weeds today, and clip seed heads from the waning summer blossoms. It’s past time to trim shrubbery and plant the autumn salad greens. I will engage as if this work must be my true calling, administering true love with clippers and trowel. The light, the blessed light is finally different now.

©2013 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

Tags: Working, Writing, Living