July 16

The 25 year old me would never believe I’d become an early riser
Thirty years or so later I’m enchanted by the hours
The younger was convinced were meant for sleep
Or tortured wakefulness
Today’s cool and still summer coffee morning renews
Not yet the hour when lawn mowers invade
A buoying cacophony of birdsong inhabits my ears
A watering can as best friend
One step ahead of drowning summer heat
My meditation in nurturing
A missed day becomes an impatiens’ doom
Now, at summer’s midpoint, locusts insist on intruding
Crashing over syncopated trills, twitters, warbles
Still, distinct screeches overflow my morning world
A myriad of arias blend to a blaring cicada crescendo