Just one week ago I was all a fizz and a flutter, all spots of sun and light as air. But now I feel mired in the muck. Unwilling to invest the energy to do the things I want to do, and instead I remain fettered to all the things I wish to slough off.
I had intended to write a more aspirational post but I think I’m going to muddle on that a bit longer.
So instead I will bid goodbye to my beloved summer vines.
Each year I get so attached to that common tangle, a mixed marriage locust and milkweed and rosehip, gartered by honeysuckle and starred with wild iris and morning glory.
The hedges are trimmed back each fall but it seems like it happened earlier this year. Now it’s bleak and dull and without fail makes me think of the first stanza of “La Belle Dame Sans Merci.” I suppose there could be worse things to think of than Keats. But I will miss my quiet mornings there, soothed by the chatter of sparrows and splashing of unseen ducks.
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