This summer was dry. I wrote no poems. I left my sacred spot on the mantle unattended for weeks at a time. I felt like I didn’t care about anything. I was bored. Anxious. Busy.
It was a dry season. The one thing I did was write a prayer for prayers of the people at church. The vulnerability I felt in that made the dry season even drier. A little bug under the magnifying glass and the sun brought into a sizzling point. Writing a bid and response prayer is weird. But writing that prayer was the best thing, only thing I did this summer. Ah, but I made a garden, though. There’s that.
Now, the days of summer are dwindled down to just a few. And I feel the change. I picked the frilly cosmos, and brought them into the house, I set out rocks i love and lit a candle. I put out the first icon I ever had, “All Saints”, or “The Great Cloud of Witnesses”. I stood for a moment feeling a slight softening in the rock of my heart. The hope for growth; for the dew on the ground to stay through the morning.