It is only six in the morning
but the blue haze of humidity
clings like a woolen blanket on my wet skin.

Heat like this commands stillness...
...and stillness tempts memories to surface
ones that live encumbered
beneath the flurry of everyday activity.

July's languor starts the yearlong cycle,
with the different seasons lending to its cadence.
It culminates in spring
with great hopes of plucking sweet fruits
off of well-pruned vines.

These were my thoughts at bedtime last night as the oversized fan blew warm air over our sweat-drenched bodies. Waking halfway through the night I reached for George only to find him gone, no doubt in search of a cooler room somewhere on the floor beneath us. It was still scorching at 3 :00 A.M. as I fell into a deep slumber and dreamed.

The dream found me overlooking the preparations for a wedding feast. The bride, both worldly and pure, rehearsed her walk down the aisle in full dress while chatting with guests that filled the chapel. Myriad chefs prepared the food while elsewhere bridesmaids dressed in hand-beaded gowns. The most striking image was the church itself. Its walls were full of sacred scenes set off by vines wrapped about windows pouring light into this beatific room. Its marble columns and frescos were, no doubt, inspired by the church that still stands in the heart of my hometown, but in my sleep, was embellished by a psyche groomed by years of working gardens, composing photographs, arranging flowers, rearranging homes, and raising a child.

In the stillness of this July morning with my dream fresh upon me, my mind is crowded with the memory of that first encounter with my husband during another summer of record-breaking heat. And so faithful to an internal rhythm and the prompting of my soul, I begin SONGS OF THE PAST.