Renaissance Summer

This summer, I surrender to the last longings of my youth.  No “real job” for me: but I’ll be happy to babysit to my heart’s content.  Return to the days when my earnings were stuffed into a mason jar. No eight-hour shifts at the sandwich shop spent watching the sun shift absently across the sky. No shifts dutifully covered.  No carefully planned weekends requested off of work.

I give up the stable and quotidian existence just for one more summer to call my own.  A month on the mythical continent, at a captivating loss as to what I will find, or what will find me.  New adventures in aged books.  Sunrises on the road, sunsets pitched amongst the aspen trees.  Afternoons in the blustery balm on the reservoir.  Quiet nights watching old shows, indies, and lightning storms. 

These fragments, and many more: like the fin of a pinwheel, or a set of painted toes; the sound of a pigeon cooing in the morning, the still-cool breeze whisking through my open window.  I gift myself one summer to bask amongst the scruples; immeasurable, intense, and  invisible.

  And I call it a renaissance because I endeavor to immerge renewed.