In the midst of June, at the threshold of summer, in the torrid grasp of unrelenting heat, in the lush impossibly green tangle of overgrown trees and shrubs, in the intolerable assault of raging insolent insects, in the balmy embrace of endless days, in the lulling caress of wakeful nights.
Humid, fog-shrouded dawns.
Sunsets bathed in crimson blood.
Lightning bugs silently swimming in a thick twilight haze.
Soothing memories of long-ago summers sifting through my restless mind during the dreamy, drowsing hours.
The massive embrace of impending summer serves to temporarily obscure the insurmountable problems that are presently plaguing my existence and ravaging my soul.
I can't write about them here. I wouldn't dare.
They will brazenly manifest themselves over the depthless slumber of my grave.
Is this too dramatic, too poetic, too incomprehensible?
Blame it on the homemade wine that sustains me and creates a barrage of words and phrases that I otherwise would never have the capability to write.
Every morning while I'm in bed, watching the mystic waves of fog drifting outside my open window, I hear the plaintive soothing call of a distant mourning dove.
It is a comforting reassurance that my utter dissolution, disenchantment, desolation doesn't exist alone.
Ignore my lamentations. You would never choose to understand them. I'm an enigma unto myself.
Jon
My front yard this morning - - wild, untamed, a tangle of complete hopelessness.
My front porch this morning, engulfed in a nightmare of unrelenting greenery.
In the back of the house, where forest trees were toppled from raging storms. A massive void is there, but the remaining trees are full and lush.
Unflattering view of the monstrous back "yard"
Bosco, taxing my nerves as he explores places that he shouldn't be.
Bosco, lonely without his two feline companions Kitzee and Scruffy (I miss them, too)
In the unkempt living room
