Summer by Miriam Sagan or Where I’m At

Creative process is sometimes deep and wide, sometimes ephemeral. Like my dreams, it reflects the world but not always in an exact way. My book of poetry about astronomy, Star Gazing, is out from Cholla Needles Press! That was about nine months in the making, a focused and even pressured process. I’m completing a novella, Shadow on the Minotaur, due out from Red Mountain in 2021. Fiction can be a lot more laborious for me–I’m almost four years in.
So–what now? Since January I’ve been dabbling in a memoir I’m calling Stash–flash pieces, often about childhood. Yesterday’s blog post on ankle socks is part of it, as is today’s musing on the season and the goodness–or lack of goodness–of God.


We lie in the lawn and eat what we can forage—mostly tasty onion grass. I pick three-leafed clovers and peel another leaf to add to them.
“Look! Four-leafed clover!” I tell my dubious younger siblings.
“What’s this?” My brother holds up a tiny daisy.
“A daisy,” I say.
“No,” he says, “a sunflower…only very very far away.”
He will grow up and become an architect.
My father is out with the weed killer and a spiked tool that pulls up roots. It is a two-acre lot. That is a lot of weeds. The lawn is mostly bluegrass, but it also has its primeval edges…moss, violets, forage. Once we see a caterpillar wasp paralyze its prey and lay its eggs in the still living mass of protein. It is just this wasp that made Charles Darwin doubt a benevolent God, but we are children. As such, we know only God’s tyranny, and the random cruelty of the universe. The wasp does not bother us. It is just following its nature. As is my father—spraying and pulling. He works the front lawn while we sit in the back blowing every dandelion head that comes to hand. The lovely fairy-winged seeds float innocently on our breath, looking to land.

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