“Do you know," Peter asked, "why swallows build in the eaves of houses? It is to listen to the stories.” ~ J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan


the movement of summer: the last of july

texas saturday night.
no air conditioning.
gruene hall.

it is the end of july and i am feeling a rush to say words, a rush leading into my attempt at august break, a month of mostly pictures, a month i have my doubts about, and yet i have no words. it is too hot for words. august is tomorrow, this last month of summer already at the doorstep, and surely i have something, i think, surely something is worth talking about, but i sit here with both feet up, the hotness of summer visible through the glass doors, and i am blank.

this morning was a gift of fresh okra,
a surprise waiting at the front door
when i at last opened the house to the day;
it is too beautiful to eat, but eat it i will.
it was a red dragonfly perched on an old daylily stalk
the shadows of trees
moving across the lawn and the red bricks of the street.
right now is the sun in the west,
the shadows on the opposite sides of the trees,
the front yard all in shade,
2 strips of sunlight tipping the monkey grass along the creek
no breeze.
tonight is the future,
the very last bit of july,
the last stars of the month,
the last july moonlight.

i am blank, and not unhappy about that.


  1. can
    your image
    is such fun..

  2. I'm sure it was a cheatin' song. :)

  3. oh debi, yours are words i could read over and over... i never tire of your posts. i so hope you'll join me for imperfect prose on thursdays, as perfect as your prose seems... thanks for this, friend.

  4. You CAN make anything sound like poetry.
    You already know that I am in love with this image.
    And "tonight is the future,"... I am in love with that as well...
    It's 11:59 on the last night of July as I type this. Ouch. But I have a good feeling about August...

  5. surely, there will be words in august.

    we are not the silent types.

    xxoo, graciel

  6. These summery things you speak of feel, already, like a fading memory...as the air cools here, and the leaves start to change.

    But perhaps, if I had come to read this back in JULY, I would be writing something entirely different in this little white box!


come. sit under the emma tree & let's talk. i have cookies . . .