It is the end of summer, according to the calendar, yet the season begs for untimely attention. Nature taunts my senses as a cold billow of wind tackles a lingering balmy breeze. Fall battles for its kingdom as summer succumbs to a false frost that sprinkles the ground like stale confectioners sugar icing on a cookie. This chill has crept into my house and has penetrated the insulated wall that has segregated the summer heat.
I walk back outside into the cool air to fetch some leftover winter wood, willing to play nature’s game. I pick up a log and brush off the spiders and other innocuous vermin that have sought refuge between the cracks. The insects fall from the log as if swimming from a sinking ship as I bang the wood hard to warn them of their imminent danger. The insects don’t fight to protect their squatter’s rights, I suppose they know there is safer ground to be sought. I pick up two logs and lay them on the ground, isolated from the pile. As I kick the logs to knock off the remaining debris I realize that I have uncovered the worms’ hideout. The worms squirm and zigzag in a frenzy, panicked as having been discovered. In my pity for the worms, I return the logs to the pile, lest the worms survive to be bait for the fishermen.
The logs that I bring inside my house are muddy and damp from the summer rains. Still determined to make a soothing fire, I place the logs on the andirons. Adding kindling and twisted newspaper, I light a match and wait for the logs to ignite. The kindling dances to a strange hissing sound that emanates from the logs as if to laugh at the kindling and recite, “You are confused. We will never burn, we are for the winter, not the summer. We will never burn, we will never…” The rod clanks against the metal handled broom that I keep on a nail below the mantle as I retrieve it to stir the failed ashes. A small spark suddenly erupts to revive the kindling to tease and burn with a fierce determination to leave its mark before its imminent demise. I watch the solo dance of the kindling as the logs adamantly deny my whim for a summer fire. Without further effort towards this ill-fated logic, I return the rod next to the broom that hangs on a nail on the mantle and reach for a blanket to block the cold billow of wind that still embraces the season’s sweet summer.
(c) 2012 Linda Stone Cohen All Rights Reserved
Remember that no amount of money can purchase grace, wisdom and humility. Until tomorrow…
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