Northern summers are limited, and the potential for pleasant surprise does not have the luxury of time and slow ease of wait and see observation. The intrusive pale green shoots that force their way up through the perennial daisies return. Fine — grow — show me something: make me leave you there.
I am rewarded with giant flower buds — down covered and silky smooth. They sway in the breeze like a gathering of so many cock-heads, and I cannot help but stroke each one as I would a lover. I imagine that under the moon they ooze sweet drops of come. When they bloom, the pink petals fold down on themselves like heavy lips that try, but rarely succeed in guarding the sweet core. A gently slid finger reveals satin skins, rich pollens, a drop of moisture. A place perhaps where fairy tongues have lingered.