Even the weeds are blooming.
I met patches of daisies that looked as if they were soaked in lavender water.
Purple seems to be the color of late July blooms.
On either side of the road is thick overgrowth, furred mullein and choke cherry trees and much I can’t name.
The weeds sprouting purple pompoms branch out like pine tree skeletons; their unbloomed bulbs look like shut eyeballs.
I was jogging back up the gravel road, and was stopped by a smell. I took two steps back and stood inside a warm waft of honey that was rising from downwind. In neighbors forest over the wire fence, I could see their crate city of bee hives.
I used to wash my face with honey. I would let it rest on my skin for a while, and I smelled it on the top of my lip.
The Juneberries with their thin plum skin, they come waxy like a fogged black window,
I pulled one off the bundle, and polished it with the oil of my thumb.
Pinch the skin off and there is a stomach of seeds inside.
I was not positive they were Juneberries, so I did not taste it, but it smelled and bled over my fingers like the single one I was given by my aunt.
The gravel road levels out to flat white dirt as I pass by the apple trees. The green bunches of them have taken their circles of space, and have yet to swell.
Above the apple trees there is a pocket of smoke covering the east face, our side of the mountain.
The smoke lingers low, the tops of the pines touch the heft of it.
You could mistake it for dense morning mist, though it is late day.
Day turns over quicker than it promised for it being deep summer, and the white light is muffled till it begins to leak out through the wide wound of sunset that I catch from the back porch, raspberry light showing through the spaces between leaning elm trees.
