High summer when the clouds brush against the sky, hang heavy in the air, when the lone hollyhock bends low, when you have to duck beneath the sunflowers just to get by.
High summer when the garden stones are still warm, and the roses bloom when they can, and blackberries scent your evening walk.
High summer when you daydream of autumn, fast-forgetting winter, romanticizing cold, wet rain as you do when you’ve long forgotten.
High summer when you’re still just monotonously, beautifully, happily stuck in the rhythms of another hot and sticky day…
High summer when you’re barefoot in the garden after dinner and the light is lasting so, so long, then you’re washing small dirty feet in the bathroom sink again, filling up the laundry basket, singing lullabies, tucking them into bed.
It’s August again tomorrow. And what a lovely predicament.
Sierra V. Fedorko 
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