Breath has been delicate as I sing out with my banjo and guitar. I dream of stories to tell as I bring a bucket of water into the garden. I try to capture the sunlight on my strings as I put one foot in front of the other. I am both eager and confused by my busyness in July. There are festivals, there are campsites, there are rooms waiting for the singers and songwriters to loudly and proudly croon. Some days, I want it all even if wanting it all means missing the garden because I am too busy singing, but then on other days, I want to sing only for the flowers and the backyard sparrows. It is in this dilemma, I find myself grateful to be a puzzle piece. Tomorrow, it could all be taken away. Dreams for so many mean holding onto kite strings and hoping the wind never carries too heavy or dies in the air.
I want to hold onto this, the way you might hold onto a summertime fruit, it's bounty is not endless, so you eat it slowly and savor the sugar even if it makes your hands sticky. If there ever was a place for music-making or realizing what kind of day today could be, it was in the grassy hills of July.
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