I know it’s not summer now

I know it’s not summer now
I am set back breathless.

The sun no longer blazes high
The clouds between us
Grey or black or white
Filled with rain or lightening

The earth below green
Breathing the heat
That makes sweet
The flowering and fruiting

Now, in time between
Before flaming fall
There is the tantalizing hint
Of new colors lying in wait.

Of crisp air on my face
When first I open
The door to the morning
I am set back breathless.

Labor of Love Day Weekend

Labor Day of Love Weekend

I got there.
She got sick.
I took care of her.
The apartment was hot.
She is grateful.
I went home.

I have driven 52,865 miles.

I have driven 52,865 miles

I have driven 52,865 miles in 2 years and 4 months. Most of that is to and from work—54.4 miles RT. Some of it is to and from Baltimore—598 miles RT. And there have been several holiday and wedding trips to West Hartford, CT—628 miles RT. Once I drove to Maine—1121 miles RT. Sometimes I drive back to Hobart-William Smith to see my former students. Sometimes I drive back to Honeoye Falls to see old friends—37 miles RT.

Many miles. As I drive I have tried to watch where I was going, to drive carefully. I have also tried to really see what is out the window—to find what is interesting and beautiful. I have seen the run down houses and old barns covered in snow and then framed in green. I have seen traffic lights winking through the windshield wipers. I have discovered mini-pictures in my rear view mirrors—like little periscope pictures.

I have often brought my cameras with me. Sometimes I shoot on the fly with my cell phone. Is that safe? Probably not. Mostly I stop and pull over. Lately I have gone back to a scene to shoot it from different points of view—not just from my window. The problem with this is that the photographer is not part of the picture. I am not part of the world. He is an outsider. I am an outsider. Somehow that fits perfectly. Of course, I could start using a timer and jump in the shots. There’s thought.

I drive and drive. Practically zooming. Mile by mile. Minute by minute.

Soon I will shorten these necessary and unnecessary drives. Will I miss them? Will I be happier without them? Will I be happy?