The storm approaches and we retreat.
I keep the windows open until the rain soaks the cabin floor.
An afternoon of smudged and foggy horizons bleeding
into the water, seeping into my soul.
Your lovely summer snowflakes beckon as the sun warms your smooth stalks, enticing me to pick you and bring you home.
I admire your poisonous beauty from afar, never touching the tiny, treacherous flowers and ferny leaves that would take my breath away forever.
prints of antique fabric
reading on the balcony
summer storms
strawberries and tiny shortcakes
long walks with the pup
lemonade
shades of pink
lunch with my mother
the neighboring garden
handpainted glass
Vessels that carry cargo, staying afloat despite their rust and advancing age. Bobbing and rolling in the soft waves, pulsing to an intrinsic rhythm. Sometimes stilled, at the edge of deep waters.
a speckled fawn
a trumpet swan
the golden sap on emerald pines
a black bear
a young mare
the ripe berries on tender vines
a dust mote
a sailboat
an antique, treasured valentine
I try to imagine what this lake looks like in the winter. The stillness and depth of Canadian snows, the bitter wind blowing across the frozen water, all just a distantly whispered memory on this blushing evening in July.
The dog growls, seemingly at nothing. But my senses become alert. There is no one here, nothing to fear, and yet a primitive chill runs up my spine. I decide to leave our quiet writing spot and head back to the cabin.