Permission, intention, enlightenment. First night of vacation, nine days to freely own. Tacit permission to avoid this glowing blank canvas for an evening, a night off from paragraphs, from sentences, true or otherwise. And yet intention, the pull to fill the canvas up anyway, because that's not work. Thinking about finding some words, not having much luck. Watching the day blur away, and all the neighborhood sounds die down too. Trying to get lost in a book but I'm not wandering deep enough. Waiting for that moment the day goes blue to gray, the penultimate moment, always a surprise. Every time. Watching the sky through the small, still leaves of the locust tree above. Yet when the surprise comes it's not in the tired sky but at sea level, near the grass, where night has already come. One and then another, close enough to touch -- or chase, or catch. How do you write a moody, melancholy post about anything else when the fireflies appear, when seeing them makes you smile and think, lightning bugs?
Wild nights - Wild nights! / Were I with thee / Wild nights should be / Our luxury! (Emily)