Today smells of summer, of light through leaves, translucent heat. That scent is an opening, one I gladly walk through, into a fluttering calmness that is of now and nothing else. All summer's past flakes away, a crumbling book long since forgotten beyond random phrases that float in and out, as sun on the water. I must lay in the clover and let this pervasive immediacy enfold me. It is the pressing of nothing, of thoughts that as pollen in the wind, barely formed holding seeds for tomorrow.
On my lips today are the words "Come back to me" a distant mantra of trees lost in memory, too long rooted, immbolized in dreaming. I feel potent with words, as if they are a climbing vine passively breaking all resistance. It is a good day to lay in the sun.
