the stuff of summer

[marycatelli]

Despite the rain and the cool air, having the smell of roses waft out from rose garden strides away.  And a new rose bush, with white petals.  That stay white when it wilts, and even when the petals scatter over earth, rather than turn the dingy, dirty shade that white roses so often do.

Chicory blossoming, brilliantly blue.  It often surprises me; for some reason it is stuck in my memory as the faded blue that the petals turn with age, and not the sky bright shade it begins with.  Standing over the bright yellow hop clover, and over the grass as well -- it must grow quickly, because only sometimes is it low grass that has gone to seed.  Then, not that quickly -- it's blooming along the edge of the road, often, where the mowers must leave it.

Saw a fox again.  Perhaps the same one.  Instead of looking warily at the car as I drove out, trotting briskly over the lawn as I looked out the window one morning.  There was a butterfly fluttering palely ahead of it.

The amazingly intricate clouds with all the dips and rises and hollows -- I'd compare to a tree if they didn't tower higher and have more forms than any tree ever takes -- and then at the other side it blurs away into the sky, pure white haze that has no edges.

Comments

[jennygordon.livejournal.com]

I love roses, but never have much luck growing them. These days, I content myself with smelling those in other people's gardens as I pass.

[marycatelli]

Ah, these, too, were the roses other people planted -- though in a public park