In the winter, the sun disappears at the end of the day and I’m left bitter that my day is already over. Things feel self-involved and boxy and enclosed.
In the summer, the sun sets and I am able to slow down and enjoy it. The day may be over but the night is beginning and I am filled with warm memories of Ohio—of sitting on the front porch in the red, weathered rocking chair watching fireflies blink on and off beneath our beech tree.
I long for those rural, flat fields and woods where I feel more connected to the earth—where I can take pleasure in the beauty of warm evening rains instead of worrying about wet subway grit, litter-ridden street puddles and splashes from speeding taxi-cars. A place where my senses are blessed with a warm haze of dewey blues and greens, vanilla home-made ice-cream, geranium breezes, cricket symphonies, and grass beneath my bare feet.
It got to a nice 60º on Friday. Union Square was pretty flooded with people like me savoring the small glimpse of summer in the middle of February.
