While the air holds the chill
Of stubborn winter not yet turned spring,
And a hint of woodsmoke lingers,
I dig it out
Shake it off
And trudge over still-dead grass
To my spot
Between the maple and the pin oak.
It’s hammock season.
I climb in, settle back
And begin to sway.
Clouds and new buds
Move lazily above me.
The cool breeze dances around me,
And honeysuckle sweetens the air.
The weigela is a pale burst of fireworks.
The jay squawks,
And the mockingbird answers back.
The ice cream truck tinkles a tune,
Bringing summer to our street.
Cicadas sing in the trees
While a lawn mower drones in the distance.
The swaying slows,
The quiet creak of chain and hook
I drift in and out of sleep
Heavy with coming dreams –
Like the clouds, heavy with coming rain.
The air will be crisp again
With the first hints of woodsmoke,
And I’ll shiver against the breeze.
Still I’ll linger,
Stubbornly holding my place
In spite of dimming light
And cooling evenings
That tell me time is short.
And make the most of hammock season.