Our Blue Moon is exhausted from exertion; shining brilliantly last night over darkened trees, sleeping houses and cooling land. She settles slowly way off somewhere behind the forest on a quiet Thursday dawn as she winks and nods a greeting to the new month. Morning yawns cautiously in reply. The moon and the dawn find themselves together on the down side of nothing.
This nothing day is not a day without purpose, but a time where the mind’s eye, rested and cleansed looks outward; far, far ahead to see the horizon uncluttered with tightly drawn squares, check marks, detailed lines of faces all demanding that something happen. On August the first, the day after the Blue Moon, nothing must happen. There is brewing coffee and porch lingering to enjoy while listening to energized neighbors discuss methods of pulling rocks out of the front and side yard; a few vicious sneezes, and then silence.
Wherever those people linger who demand that we ‘do’, may hover elsewhere for just a bit longer because our summer is not yet spent. The season turns just a touch more with that inevitable twisting down toward cooling ground, longer evenings and lengthening shadows.
In June we tossed aside notebooks, envisioning endless sand, puffy clouds, watermelon ice and corn dogs; this time it would last forever. But July always comes to an end. So soon, too soon Earth’s yellow orb cowers under the Blue Moon’s gaze and she blinks first and so soon must we. But not today. Not yet.
August’s first early dawn settles, just a touch reserved; waiting as the white curtains in the reading room billow and flap wildly, and over this rocky terrain we call home, wind chimes blow continually at the edge of this house on the hill. He labors with the land by 6:30 morning time; weeding and seeding and by mid day I shall take him cold, iced lemon water because all seasons require kindness.
690 Saint Paul 