This is not the melting gold reflected on the chin of a child, but the frigid block that tears up toast.
Our Aesculus x carnea is the only chestnut we have which resists the leaf miners that turn A. hippocastanum leaves to curled scratchings before summer is out. It drops pointed wedges of dairy in morning drizzle.
Bruised purple dogs curl up in shrubby mounds and a few fading cherries hang their flames like hankerchiefs dripping from a line. Their heat is only memory, insufficient to melt buttercups.
A meadow that stretches in lengthening days is half the world away.