the inherent tension of waiting

Sunlight churns this day through, generating a good breeze in the doing. We stalled on the durable iron chairs--my elbows on the mesh tabletop, and you, adjacent, cycle through phases in umbrella shade. Do you feel this tension? Do you feel the reason why I can't think of anything to say? Or, for you, maybe this fine slice of day is enough. The umbrella blooming over the nearby table stutters; ours holds. I imagine a wild iris flower: grows so heavy it tips over.