Solstice

 June 21, 2026

Solstice. Radiant beauty. Flowers in my garden like glowing coals. The day has been luxurious, ample, rolling out hour by hour like a golden cloth. For me, every day could be the summer solstice. 

Weeding

Concert yesterday afternoon– if you can tell from the comments– a crowd-pleaser. People asked for copies of my poem, or said, “Who wrote that poem? I was trying to follow along, but it wasn’t familiar. . .” My obscurity is a judgment on the universe. Our director flubbed an entrance in the otherwise perfect Schubert. A conductor’s imperious “watch me!” should be wedded to expertise. Robert Shaw did wonderful things for choral music, but some of his practices, which can best be described as tics, became, somehow, honored standards. Not his fault, but that of his sycophants.  

Mrs towhee flew to my very toe-tip to take a crap. Offering or contempt?