And they prayed to the gods who brought the cool water, the wetness which didn't burn. They defied mother's warnings to stay away from water, to stay indoors, to stay safe.
It never rains in California, or snows in Seattle, except when it does. My father rails yet from his grave against the wetness of "the coast." Everyone, everywhere loves where they live "because it has all four seasons" but disregard none would agree what those seasons should look like or if they exist(ed) at all. Kids play baseball in snow, football during extreme heat warnings. My childhood home fills with smoke every time I visit—never during my childhood. My front yard struggles to under- stand why rain drowned months of drought yet six weeks later, they thirsted again. We think ourselves smart with only vague notions of weather's history, its background, its vagaries, its fickle obstinacy toward being pinned down. Strip "climate change" of its political charge, what's left? Surety. Things have changed...but... did this wheel always spin? Did we merely boost it? Ask my grandparents during the Dust Bowl. Ask my great- grandparents during winters when my grandparents greeted our world. Ask me. This feels different. This feels "not normal." This smacks of Apocalyptic Event (movie to follow).
A blogger I follow received a three-month sabbatical and noted while he had grand plans, he found it more grand to ease into the “mundane” activities of playing and reading with his children, taking walks, traveling, visiting his parents, and such. He seemed a little surprised by this.
In non-summer months, the cats didn’t have to share the couch with me. 1984.
Teachers pant for June more, you lovely little monsters. Adult nerves handle one question every few seconds poorly—three, simultaneously uttered, become background noise to our crumbling sense of purpose.
First day: lie on the couch oriented, right hand reaching books, water, coffee. Sleep when it occurs. Open door policy for cats, who wander, wonder at this new couch denizen. Ignore phone calls. Feel the throbbing subside in feet which bore all for eight hours, one hundred eighty days.
Second day: wander house wander yard wonder why they look different. See things to do. Know their time has come. Slide back to your classroom, retrieve forgotten things. Hide if people come in.
Days three to seven: attempt to forget each day's name. Forget instead all those things from Day Two.
Ease into being, doing for its own sake. Mind ascends to philosophy, theory, to next-year-will-be-different, dwells in growing visions of daily perfection, ignores realities learned before.
August: Take joy in planning, attacking a new year. Feel like Superman putting things back together. Laugh.
Teachers pant for August more, you whining recalcitrants. Our dreams rebuilt, our minds alert, our souls recharged—we're ready to grapple once again. Ready to push summer back into its closet.
67/100 “One hundred poems in one hundred days!” (but my sense of time is fluid) two-thirds to being there
Whither my dither? And from whence? It comes from focus, from obsession, from lack of limits on myself. Grabbing issues, tick-like, never to let go until they're drained dry. Resembling mad scientists in old movies, eyes-a-poppin'! Discussions become arguments; paying bills sends me on trips into financial rabbit-holes where accountants fear to tread. My mind, honed razor-sharp cuts anything in its path. Too bad if it's me, too bad if it's you. Something seems near- guaranteed to blow. Comfort or habit? Can't tell, but it promises familiarity, which brings confidence (deserved or not).
66/100 “One hundred poems in one hundred days!” (but my sense of time is fluid) two-thirds to being there
Unretouched photo from an hour after dawn, August 8th, 2026, in northern Spokane, WA, where three wildfires burned uncontrollably.
Ninety-nine: French bread hot, water steaming for each loaf's crusty, chewy finish. Traveling inside cool comfort, knowing this cannot last forever. "Hot enough for you," quips farmers market vendor, blue eyes twinkling beneath weather-lined, browned forehead supporting white buzz cut. "Yes, but barely," my clever retort. He laughs, takes my money, knowing which one of us will soon be walking across hot, radiating blacktop back to his car.
65/100 “One hundred poems in one hundred days!” (but my sense of time is fluid)
Wow, got home from first choir practice of the season and forgot to post my already-written poem. At least this gives me a chance to spruce it up.
Restroom sign at Spokane Indians’ Ballpark. August 2026.
Fool me at all
Fool myself, shame on me. Listen! Listen to my Muse who infuses spirit, wrenching right from wrong, meaning out of nonsense. That still, small voice yields more than all those shouts banging around my mind. Pray, pray for each moment, each small touch to break through every moment every day.
Eastern Tiger Swallowtail butterfly, likely female, on Anise Hyssop. September 2026.
One of my new favorite plants is the anise hyssop. Anise hyssop grows to about four feet with long flower clusters at the end of each upward branch. These clusters each have what looks like about 100 flowers. The large one in the photo above has approximately 50 clusters. (I had to count them for a pollinator study I participated in.) The weight and height of the branches causes them to bend a bit, making them look like a flower arrangement to me. The flowers don’t bloom all at the same time, but over the past two seasons ours has peaked in late June through mid-July, after which some of the flowers begin to do whatever propagation chores the plant must do.
Same bee, different photo from July’s. Note more flower clusters in the background. July 2026.
The hyssop attracts many pollinators. I participated in the Great Southeastern Pollinator Count two weeks ago, choosing this plant because it had so many flowers. I counted mostly Eastern bumblebees and a little wasp about a half inch in length. Others included a very small bee, ants, another kind of insect I’ll just call a beetle, and the biggest dang wasp I’ve ever seen! I looked it up, and I’m sure I saw a Great Black Wasp. I’ve seen three different maximum lengths ranging from 1.4-2.0 inches. I swear it was about 2.0 inches in length. Absolutely huge.
Yesterday I saw our lone species of hummingbird here in the SE United States, a ruby-throated one, also checking out the hyssop. It seemed to prefer the similar-looking flowers of the obedient plant quite near me. And both yesterday and today the several hyssop plants in our yard have been caught the attention of Eastern Tiger Swallowtail butterflies.
When I began the census count, I lamented to my wife that most of flowers have long past their peak. I expected to find few pollinators compared to June-July. The purple coneflowers have lost all their petals; the spiky centers remains, attracting goldfinches to the seeds, not pollinators to the pollen. Similarly, the black-eyed Susans and Indian blanket flowers have mostly disappeared.
But strangely (to me), the hyssop seems to have popped out more flowers! Over the past three days bees, most of the Eastern carpenter variety, have been madly jumping on the hyssop flower clusters. From a distance they’re visible by watching the ends of the stalks bouncing up and down in a non-existent breeze. And then there’s the apparent delight some butterflies have taken in finding yet more flowers on the hyssops.
We need to keep trying, keep putting out those flowers of attraction. It makes a difference. Perhaps “carpenter bees” aren’t your thing. Perhaps you dislike benign-but-huge “wasps”. No matter. Our purpose is to flower. Let the rest take care of itself.
Oregon Coast, a picture of equanimity. August 2026.
Life hits lulls where everything seems "Okay"— Not "Good" not "Bad" just beautiful balance, something which seems more normal. Those highs match lows for extreme stress on emotions, on health, on mental well-being. "Give me equanimity or give me breath!" Thank you, Patrick. Always thought you were too wound up, but now I see you're just like all of us: wanting to keep our heads down for fear of getting whacked in some cosmic Whack-a-Mole game without rhyme, reason.
Old folks get “procedures”…lots and lots of ’em. Is it worse to prepare for where cameras should never go, or wait for someone else’s? (Said “someone” adding two hours to the wait because the fine print for drinking liquids addressed certain drugs which said “someone” might have been taking.)
Was this grass gone to seed when I entered the building? August 2026.
Waiting [.....] Never my strong suit, worse when it's unanticipated. Need to blame someone. Hope we're at fault; hope we're not. Then again...what did you plan to do today? Nothing Much. What ARE you doing? See? If two roads lead to the same place, how can one be better? (However: could that dude perhaps lower that video's volume?)
A haiku today, the second of slight illness (on top of all the parts of me which don’t seem to want to work right). It’s OK. I think it just started raining, and I know I’ll mostly be just chillin’ tomorrow when my wife has one of those procedures all of us old people get….
Benny on lap. April 2023.
man with cat on lap pet each other—happiness. nubbins on his pants
Almost every day, he said, my glass seemed more than half full, but a fly would dance on top. When we came into home, winging away from sunset, I saw one cloud-like nuclear explosion. My trip's symbolic, beautiful resolution.
all the voices in my head 