The beautiful Summer is coming. The giant elder outside my kitchen window has been in bloom for a week now, dropping delicate white petals like spring snow all over the back yard. Soon the best of the boys will strut their glories in the warmth of their admirers and the sun. But I am older, closer to the end, and not so comfortable on youthful expeditions conducted on the European plan—plenty of bed but no meals. I hunger for the self I lost, exchanged in brief arousals with smooth, tanned young men; and I fear the man who will follow the troubled stirrings of my night and bring me back to bed.
I just wanted to quote that yet again. I love to quote myself. Besides, it’s perfectly appropriate; the white petals again are all over the ground.