07/16/19 What seems to me the first true summer breeze slips through the three planters on the front porch. So gently soft and warm, it releases the unmistakable scent of newly blossomed lilies, a faint pinkish-white shimmer in the spotlight moon. They perform a golden buzzer AGT act on the “X” of my first-time writing on this stage. Gnats, bugs, mosquitoes, and a curious moth flit about the laptop screen, add amazing shadows and twists to the journey of words across the desktop called “page 1.” The turtle next to the steps forever waits descent, his pole held solar light illuminating just itself. Two owls flank the flower bed below the railing, they, too, just a light of themselves never intended to be a guide. Pots hold two candy corn plants, a vining and climbing greenery entwining and reaching beyond the 3′ dowel tops. The tiny, orange and white-capped buds do exactly imitate my favorite Halloween delight. The morning glory has also outgrown its trellis and its pinkish-red blooms will highlight my morning sit prior to a day of mowing tedium in certainly not a dry heat. And my taffy snack hits the spot pretty well, too – especially the white ones, or, well, any of them actually. I like the linger-stick on my muncher teeth – a tongue-tease of lasting flavor I refuse to let become annoyance.
Every now and then the breeze hurries, chases an old leaf across the drive or bends a lily stem to insistently bend playfully back. A middle-aged Buick dispels the moment, like the doors opening for a late arrival at a sold out, but started on time performance. And the door sushes shut, the spotlight focused once again. I unwrap a purply stickiness this time as the proud Wisconsin, self-proclaimed state insect brings a rapture of buzzing, where else but around my ear. On the 60” I ride during the day, the stirred-up bugs bring swooping swallows enjoying an easy feast, those swoops nearly nicking my hat or waving arm. Kildare seem to stumble about everywhere on that yard as well, a loppy-looped hobble, chase me ridiculousness of self-preservation for little ones. What we do for our kids.
I won’t allow my mind to wander too far this night, this first imagination an everywhere on the concrete doorstep of senses. Both kitties stoically pose inside the screen door, stare untwitchingly into a swelling night that moves everything into something to stalk. My left brain wants to introduce a metaphorical message of some think, but the right side cries to just sit and “let it be, Lord, let it be.” A shadowy stalker down by Park Place Avenue turns out to be a slinky mailbox “moved” by the plants between it and me, a cleverness ployed by nature’s breathings in the hollows between the condos and the swirliness around bushes next door. Hard to be on this platform, at this “podium” with all this glory for audience. What errant efforts might I cast across the keyboard to express the inner stirrings generating excitement within, turning the windmill blades of dream and in between each, a star of some long-ago named constellation curiously calling, “Can you name me?” The time of fireflies has also come. A few more this night than last, more tomorrow for sure. They seem so quick, but really, they move “something less than half the speed of smell,” as Ron White might say. So catchable for youngsters and their Ball jars with punched lids and a blade or two of grass for ‘food.’
I tongue-nudge off the last little stickler of purple and breathe a deep inhale of farewell to this night. Maybe that red and white one might be a good end to the sit. Besides, a little bit of God’s doings sticking to my mind makes a pretty good chaser for a great piece of taffy. submitted by Dave Smith