“Paint it today…”

A drizzling, misting, light gray day in June. June. Where was the spring? Oh wait, we missed it.
After breakfast and the tug of war to change from robot pajamas to potty time to a clean diaper to clean clothes, we made our way outside regardless of the weather. Exploration of the mysterious compost bin, piled with eggshells and onion skin and apple cores, clouded with gnats, warm. Digging in “his” patch of dirt, between the garlic whose scapes are suddenly not just sprouted but tall and the newly planted tomatillo and pepper plants. Walking the “balance beam” of 4×4 at the edge of the raised bed. Squatting to examine moist soil. Squealing with delight as he watches a bird fly through the roped-up hop vines and into the bittersweet that flows from – into? – the neighbor’s yard.
Meanwhile, I drink my milky black tea and stretch a little. Three miles run Sunday, five yesterday, and my legs are muttering about it. But these legs! Suddenly my thighs are run through with iron, the soft places thinning to reveal tensile strength beneath. The baby/toddler/boy and I lie in his bed in the evenings and stretch our feet to the ceiling, shake out the stiffness, reach for our toes, roll like pencils across the thin futon mattress. He climbs on my back while I breathe through a plank. He crawls below me as I shift into downward dog. He begs to ride in the stroller, mostly because he knows we’ll visit the chickens at the farm halfway or stop on the way home at a friend’s place to descend over a hundred stairs to the shore, run around on a beach far sandier than ours, climb the rock wall, and then step up each of those stairs again, back to the stroller, back home to the dog and to dada and to dinner.
Not today, though. A rest day. For puttering around in the thick wet air. A day for more tea. And maybe some poems.

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