Torpor
Sometimes life overwhelms. Then there is little or no recording of things. Unlike friends who do and spew, I need time to ruminate and ponder. Not that I have anything at all against those who do and spew. It simply doesn’t work for me.
Besides, late May and early June in eastern Tennessee are torpid months, meant for lazing under ceiling fans and reading the prose of John Steinbeck and the poetry of Emily Dickinson. I am so lethargic I have a new box of 64 Crayola crayons I haven’t yet touched except to sniff their waxy goodness and be hurtled back to childhood.
Things are lush green, but sagging. Not yet burned by the hard summer sun, they have an appearance of the tropics. In the backyard jungle, orange-and-black tiger lilies roar at me.
I roared, too, this weekend, in air conditioned darkness.
There is ice cream too delicious for words, so we keep its frosty memory locked in our heads until we are desperate for it in July or August, when Dog Days come howling out of hell to parch our bones.
Yes. It’s hot now. But it will get hotter still.
Some things are best left unspoken.
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