Tag Archives: summer
Volunteered at a shelter, then a long, good workout, now home, eating peaches, contemplating making some almond milk hot chocolate, and beginning a Ngaio Marsh mystery book, while the fan whirs in the background with the last promise of summer.
Life is heavy, sometimes, in its wholistic measure, so let it be light in the small things.
Another tea sample from my favorite brand, Lupicia (a Japanese company with stores in various countries and insanely cheap online pricing). This is a “black tea flavored with Japanese cherries, which has a sweet and fruity aroma.”
Sakurambo is a lovely black fruity tea that strikes a nice balance between tea and cherry flavors – it’s not overpoweringly sweet but has enough flavor to please – it starts out smooth in the mouth and then unfolds to a delicate fruit flavor. It’s not overly cherry, either – if I didn’t know, I’d probably be hard-pressed to identify what kind of fruit was in this, and would probably go with peach or something lighter than cherries (which one always worries will taste like licorice or cough syrup). It also smells gorgeous – I inhale before each sip just to let that scent waft up. This would probably make an excellent iced tea and I plan to try just that soon. I won’t buy a bag of this quite yet, as it doesn’t displace my very favorite cherry green tea from a local teahouse, but I will make a note of it for potential purchase in the future. A good tea for summer.
You sleep with a dream of summer weather,
wake to the thrum of rain – roped down by rain.
Nothing out there but drop-heavy feathers of grass
and rainy air. The plastic table on the terrace
has shed three legs on its way to the garden fence.
The mountains have had the sense to disappear.
It’s the Celtic temperament – wind, then torrents, then remorse.
Glory rising like a curtain over distant water.
Old stonehouse, having steered us through the dark,
docks in a pool of shadows all its own.
That widening crack in the gloom is like good luck.
Luck, which neither you nor tomorrow can depend on.
– Anne Stevenson
The turquoise pool rose up to meet us,
its slide a silver afterthought down which
we plunged, screaming, into a mirage of bubbles.
We did not exist beyond the gaze of a boy.
Shaking water off our limbs, we lifted
up from ladder rungs across the fern-cool
lip of rim. Afternoon. Oiled and sated,
we sunbathed, rose and paraded the concrete,
danced to the low beat of “Duke of Earl”.
Past cherry colas, hot-dogs, Dreamsicles,
we came to the counter where bees staggered
into root beer cups and drowned. We gobbled
cotton candy torches, sweet as furtive kisses,
shared on benches beneath summer shadows.
Cherry. Elm. Sycamore. We spread our chenille
blankets across grass, pressed radios to our ears,
mouthing the old words, then loosened
thin bikini straps and rubbed baby oil with iodine
across sunburned shoulders, tossing a glance
through the chain link at an improbable world.
-Geraldine Connolly, Poetry 180