Wyeth Pullover

At the turn of Summer's Solstice, Cicadas send their buzzing hum across the waving meadowgrass. Sweet clover, hawkweed, and yarrow bloom above the grass edge to signal that the wild strawberries have ripened. Somewhere in the canopy, a lone mourning dove coos and coaxes the sun's rays to rest as the light changes from bright yellow to pale gold. Notes of meadowsweet and wildflower draft on the winds and bumblebees hum drowsily during the hot afternoon. Stalks of fresh hay are paired with the clover and yarrow- for tea, or for a vase-either will work. Each branch on the pine trees overhead fork like hiking trails, like a tangible form of decisions and moments interworking themselves onto a map. Steps right, instead of left, in the moment masquerading as mistakes divulging the truth: that they were all part of a grander network of lines and angles, beautiful in their complexity and lending to growth.