Dog Days

Brenda York

Brenda York

These are the dog days of summer
when we grow content with doing nothing
Bake bread not for hunger but to use up aging fruit
Watch old TV shows not for entertainment
but as an excuse to let the mind’s thoughts wander
Not particularly good days for writing
since words no longer adhere to each other but
fall from our mouths like pebbles off dry tongues
The only berries left on the blueberry bushes
are tiny and wrinkled like raisins still on their stems
It’s time to take the netting down and
let the birds come in and finish off the gleanings
Reading from the stack of books on the desk
offers little comfort: one sentence word by word
makes a paragraph and then a page
after which I realize I have not been listening
to my own eyes and end up having to reread
sentence after sentence page after page
These August days are the doldrums when
the boat we are simply drifts on unmeasured currents
on a sea with no landmarks but the horizon
Stare as we must searching for something
to catch our attention we find nothing
but sea gulls circling overhead

“Of all the animals blind at birth
people see farthest.
To be born human is a window
and blindness a practice.” ~ David Guterson


About Peter Notehelfer

I'm a retired people person who now finds the time to watch the little details of the world without worrying about being watched by anyone . . . I live on an Island north of Seattle with my wife named Ellen, a yellow dog named McGee, a yellow cat named Gatzby, and four fine chickens . . . I read fiction, bake bread, smoke salmon, and fish whenever the weather allows . . . Oh, and yes, I try to write a poem every day simply to avoid senility!
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3 Responses to Dog Days

  1. enjoyed it – especially on the second read


  2. Maureen says:

    I can so relate to this…


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