Sigh, sigh and sniff. Three of my audible, if not quite verbal, responses today. The first sigh, this morning, was one of dismay: another unseasonably chilly, gray June day. The second sigh, this afternoon, was one of contentment: the sweet peas on my balcony are starting to bloom. And the sniff — well that’s me this evening, inhaling the delicate scent of the blossoms in a vase on my computer desk.
Here are sweet peas, on tiptoe for a flight:
With wings of gentle flush o’er delicate white,
And taper fingers catching at all things,
To bind them all about with tiny rings
from I stood tip-toe upon a little hill by John Keats (1795–1821)