This is the time of year when I become poetic.
It is midsummer, and I am staying again in a little red house that is almost one hundred years old. It always welcomes us so warmly when we arrive here after the winter – the old furniture with its stories, the light that lingers in quiet rooms, the squeaky steps that lead upstairs.
I leave behind me the dirt and restlessness of the city life when I come here. The ubiquitous green surrounds me. The wind rustles in the aspen leaves. The age-old, faithful apple tree is still blooming. And I enjoy walking barefoot on the grass.
Nothing much happens.
I sit on the doorstep and watch life flow by: a rabbit on its morning walk; the neighbor’s cat chasing a mouse; a young woman from a nearby farm riding a brown horse; a tiny grey lizard resting motionless on a warm rock in front of the sauna.
The days are a continuous stream of light with no clear beginning or end. Time slows down.
In the evenings I go to sleep satiated with life.
Perhaps by August I am ready to write another poem in the spirit of Zen, like I did last year:
Definition of happiness?
Don’t go further
than the nearest forest.
On a crispy
pick yourself those flawless