WHO HAS SEEN THE THE HUMIDITY

We experience many different weather phenomena here on the north shore. Everything from simple dew to frost, fog, rain, snow, sleet; everything from gentle wafting breezes to gale-force winds. All of them leave some kind of visible "calling card" - only the wind is essentially invisible. Still, we are always aware of its presence, as Christina Rossetti so famously put it:

Who has seen the wind?
Neither you nor I:
But when the trees bow down their heads
The wind is passing by.

So even though it's not a solid thing to be seen, we feel like we actually do see the wind, too. But what about humidity? There is no visible difference between yesterday's oppressive morning and this one, which dawned bright and refreshing. Apparently, no on can see the humidity.

Then I thought about how it felt yesterday, when the humidity was way up there. I don't know what the actual percentage was, but what do numbers matter when the air feels so close it's like someone is literally breathing down your neck, and every other part of you. And people aren't the only ones feeling it. The cats stretched themselves out, being uncharacteristically quiet all day. The new dishtowel I put out felt limp, even though is just came from the dryer, my Bic pen slid differently across the paper, and the ink even looked different, darker, bolder, against the white. And when I didn't like what I'd written, and balled the paper up, it crinkled without making a sound. This morning, the summer humidity is back down to tolerable levels; I could tell that the instant I woke. Over coffee I started thinking about it. It may not be as poetic to think of a limp dishtowel in place of wind-tossed trees, but the evidence of humidity's invisible presence is just as "visible" as that of the wind. But I don't think I want to write a poem about it. And if I did, it would probably be a really cranky, whiny
one. High humidity isn't a thing to wax poetic about around here - just ask Elliott.

SPRING GLIDES GENTLY INTO SUMMER

The late afternoon sun is inching towards the spot on the horizon where it will pause for the solstice. I was out in the yard, and noticed how the angle illuminated the leaves of the twin red maples by the breakwall, and the twin red tulips beside the patio. The colors of spring always seem to me the richest, as if Nature is pouring all its energy into renewal. First come the early-blooming flowers, always a welcome sight in a winter-weary yard.



My tulips opened a little late this year – the chill lasted longer on the lake, so they’re still hanging on. They’re not two-tone; it’s the sun back-lighting their delicate translucent petals, and around them the grass and the new leaves show off their bright juicy green–or in the case of my red maples, a brilliant red. Spring progresses in stages. Across the street, the petals from my neighbor’s magnolia have fallen, and the next wave–the lilac buds–are waiting to pop.

As summer wears on, the maple leaves will lose their leaves youthful reds and turn a deeper, brownish purple–a color with the called Mars Violet in my paintbox. Trees with green leaves will grow dull, the grass will lose its spring sheen, and the tulips will be just a memory, but for now everything is shiny and new.

A SUMMER’S DAY (OSI)

held captive by cold
waves that laughed and played must wait
summer’s day to come







sun warms the season
summer’s day stretches itself
cold now forgotten









The summer photo is of the waves hitting my section of the breakwall; the winter shot about a mile west of me. The ice in that shot is so high it completely blocks the resident's view of the lake! I hope that doesn't ever happen to me, but it's hard to predict with all the variables of shoreline, temperature, wind, lake level and precipitation in any given years.


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ONE SINGLE IMPRESSION