Drought

     I notice it has been wet in Scotland this summer. And woefully wet in parts of Texas this week. Here, it has been dry, especially in our village. It is difficult, sometimes, to strike the balance between conservation, the cost of water, and protecting my garden plants. The birch trees are stressed. The front lawn has gone dormant. I've been thinking a lot about dry. It turned into a poem.

Dry

Dry
Dry as a bone
The limbs of trees dripping yellowed leaves on the ground,
ribs of mountains veined with parched streams
and fists of knuckled stones,
the supine spine of vines panting in the sun
limp with exhaustion

Dry
Dry as dust
The pool of dust in the garden where the birds bathe,
thirst in the throat of the drainpipe
and the tongue of shade that laps the crackling grass,
a coil of barren soil curling around a finger of air
blowing smoke

Dry as death
the tinder
the match
the aftermath of ash and sooty bones

                                                            ~ Nib of Nib's End ~

Gray Bed

     After a storm destroyed much of our garden five years ago, we have spent every summer since restoring a portion of it. With my husband so often abroad, we have a short window in which to get projects done. Now that the garden is in order, we have moved inside to tweak a few rooms. The first project on the list was to paint our pine bed and nightstands. My husband wanted to try chalk paint, which turned out to be a mistake. Just breathing on it made the paint chip. Three coats of paint, three coats of finish and three days later, however, we had a lovely gray bed. The only negative was that it was supposed to be taupe. We have a long history of not being able to match the paint swatch in the store with the color in our heads.

     Still, I like my gray bed...

     The natural, yellow pine was a warm look, but the gray feels peaceful to me. I like to lay in bed and think quiet thoughts. It is a lovely way to start and end the day.