July is the hottest month, breeding
weeds in my tulip pots, mixing
energy with ennui, stirring
deck chairs with thunderstorms.
You can see I’ll never be T.S. Eliot, and for that, I suppose, we should all be grateful. But seriously, it’s that time of year when I can scarcely make myself venture into the balcony to water my weeds – I mean plants – before sundown. The evening stretches late into the night, and then I lean on the railing and admire the lights of my city, and feel fortunate. Continue reading

