Can I compare thee to a summer’s day?

This day does not belong in a love sonnet. The skies are a mid slate-grey; the air is so humid it feels like I could wring a cup of water out of it; and I am underwhelmed by a scenery dominated by weeds.

Today is not a beautiful day by any measure of “beautiful” unless there is something in it to attract hydrologists. But I find something about it appealing.

This day is my inner child

Somewhere at home I have a stuffed toy whose fur sticks up in every direction and has a googly eyed smile. (See below) This is how I envision my inner child, so homely it’s delightful, ingratiating, happy.

Today is like my inner child. Nobody would seek it out or list it among their best days of summer. Yet I sat on the porch swing earlier, feeling attuned to the endless clouds and the slight breeze. Smudged nose, scraped knees, unkempt day. My inner child mirrored in the day.

Learn to love the imperfect

I am reminded to love the imperfect. The gloomy summer’s day, the homely stuffed toy, the scruffy child. They have their own appeal.