my way is in the sand flowing
between the shingle and the dune
the summer rain rains on my life
on me my life harrying fleeing
to its beginning to its end. . .

Excerpt from “Four Poems,” by Samuel Becket,

July is wintergreen in bloom, low on the trail, in the shade of the canopy of trees, the tiny white blossoms hanging like decorative bulbs from a bright red stem rising between the hips of two green striped leaves. Me and Charlie, early on the trail after saying happy birthday and goodby to Frank, also up early and out for a birthday water ski with a friend. I add five humid minutes to my run. My friend is on her dock under the clouds in the stillness of the early morning. It is our fifth in this commitment. I stretch. The dogs frolic and fish and fuss and chase a tennis ball. I meditate. I am restless. Swimmers glide by, swish swish. I focus, again distracted, but it’s okay. My breath is steady and deep. I take my swim, around the island, and add five minutes to my swim as well. The water is slow and cool and fresh. Charles and I wander home in the buggy woods, taking our time. I cross the lace covered meadow; my favorite wildflower is wildly in bloom and brightens the cloudy meadow. It’s so cheerful, this Queen Anne’s Lace in the morning light. I am making good, steady, focused progress on my poems from letters project. But my new poem, the one I workshopped Thursday feels like it’s moved into a broken phase. I am at a loss for what to do with it. Which means, it’s breathing quietly. It’s meditating on me. Tonight, it’s almost dusk. There is a bit of racket in the yard rising up through the closed windows, high voices calling dogs. My son is here with Luke to see Charlie and Suzi, to race across the yard and tire us all out for bed.