The Italian House

This is my favourite time of year. Grapes are starting to grow on their tangled vine across our pergola. The maple, elm and locust trees stand tall, in the shadows they have created for another. Our lilies are blooming, and our roses too, surrounded by their heady perfume. Our hostas are flowering, and our daisies too on their tall leafy stalks. The daisies stand in clusters of white, their petals touching, like soft embroidery on pillow cases.

My clothes hang out to dry on their clothes pegs, slowly taking in the fresh scent of summer air.

I like to watch birds bathing in the bird bath, white moths floating dreamily and lazily around us, my children playing and laughing barefoot in their playfort.

I think of books I'd like to read before the summer is out. Poetry books, short stories, and novels whose settings take us to a distant shore.

I think of my own writing. The stone house, the unread letter, the sun-baked rooms. The Italian house.