waist high

It’s darn-near perfect outside.

What an incredibly mild week of summer we’ve had. A reprieve. I love that word. Its definition is to cancel or postpone punishment. The heat can assault and afflict. I’ve seen it scorch leaves and vines to yellow crisps. And then that’s it – no more producing. I think that is probably the most painful way to go: to slowly wither and waste away.

I noticed the roses coming back. Usually they hide in the peak of summer swelter, then re-emerge when it’s safe to show their fair faces again. But they have clearly been told that conditions are ideal for budding and undressing. They are such show-stoppers. I rubberneck each time I catch a glimpse of their glamour.

Speaking of undressing, my Naked Ladies are standing unashamed. I find it fascinating that she only appears once her greenery dies off, and I forget she even exists. Then suddenly she’s there, in all her nude comeliness, only clothed with her natural beauty.

Yesterday I stood waist-deep in the Zinnias at dusk. I just wanted them to pool around me like children, so I could take them in up close. Look each one in the face and gape over the intricacies. They have all grown up together, but have unique bloom patterns and coloring. It’s very much like my own children, and looking into faces that have grown up in the same space, but are each undeniably distinct. Funny how that works. I purpose to not let their adorableness go to waste, and promise them a bouquet inside, where I can enjoy them in another way.