Raindrops on the tin overhead. The heat blast of yesterday had unexpectedly passed. Better close the roof window, even little drops would damage the plaster. Early morning the light in that window had lit up a square of cumulus cotton like a lightbox, succulent blue and puffery like a dream. Renaissance era holiness. Sleepy-dopey it could not be ignored and got a second, longer look. Now fetching the rod for the window, the kitchen window below on the lower level held a number of vivid flowers that had again sprung from those sharp grass fronds in the garden. Unlikely repeated offerings not much regarded at earlier appearance only a few weeks ago. Now too they would pass within days. Mistaken attempting to seize anything of this world, you ought know, you old Zen man you.
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