In summer, mornings are my
favorite, especially cool, cloudy
ones. The anxious wait; anticipating
a storm at lunch time, raucous
birdsong a soundtrack to the chilled
moist air. It’s like a pause in the sticky,
humid span of days. Fresh air, a change
of pace, the soothing caress of patient,
deep longing. All we have is this time –
each moment a whisper, fading as
soon as it arrives. We cling to it and
paint a vivid picture in our memory,
but life is fickle and our recollections
fade away, only pulled to the forefront
of our minds with the smell of
honeysuckle on the fresh damp breeze.