by Julie Allyn Johnson
but for this zealous, late-summer breeze, today’s warmth and humidity would likely unravel my otherwise optimistic, carefree nature. finished with yardwork, I sit quietly for a well-earned time out under the shaded eaves on the north side of our three-bedroom ranch. I watch as a groundskeeper traverses the fairway, apparently mindful of the cratered ruts on the course, the aftermath of recent storm-damage and heavy rains. he zooms by, not unlike a giddy child, on his tractor mower, its metal apron skimming the bentgrass, the rumbling, roaring machine’s orange paint reflected in the still-puddled water, not a hundred yards from the ladies’ tee box.
baby hummers chitter in the fading weigelas
still stressed, it seems, from my earlier pruning
our stately linden, an indifferent refuge
Julie Allyn Johnson is a sawyer's daughter from the American Midwest whose current obsession is tackling the rough and tumble sport of quilting and the accumulation of fabric. A Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee, her work can be found in Star*Line, The Briar Cliff Review, Phantom Kangaroo, Lyrical Iowa, Moss Piglet, Lowestoft Chronicle, Coffin Bell, Haikuniverse, Chestnut Review and other journals. Julie enjoys photography and writing the occasional haiku, some of which can be found on her blog, A Sawyer’s Daughter.
January House Literary Journal 
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