This is just about the middle of official summer, so maybe it will start getting a bit milder soon. The days are already noticeably shorter. This evening I watched the sky, it was still holding some light from the vanished sun as the waxing crescent moon emerged. There were some puffs of cloud here and there, slowly blending with the night. That sky is gone now, a different sky replacing it, the moon sunk into the pines, the clouds vanished, the stars brightened. The chirps of the crickets remain like those of any other night. All these clocks, and time remains unchecked.
Sunday Verse
When Spring Returns
by Fernando Pessoa
When Spring returns
Perhaps I will no longer be in the world.
Today I wish I could think of Spring as a person
So that I could imagine her crying for me
When she sees that she's lost her only friend.
But Spring isn't even a thing:
It's a manner of speaking.
Not even the flowers or green leaves return.
There are new flowers, new green leaves.
There are new balmy days.
Nothing returns, nothing repeats, because everything is real.
