Green's terminal canopy.
Ivy pulls the fence apart far enough to piece it all together. Striations proxy as the whole. Perhaps seeing each other with eyes is the same deficit as knowing the other in the dark. So I sew the distance.
Too many beers in, Tom Petty cover tunes. And then R.E.M. A man at the bar had the same shirt on I did - the gray one with the white elephant. This one goes out to the one I love...
The smell of fresh dill is August and I would love August if it didn't precede the months that lead to winter.
Morning light and I jog the wooded trail. The faster the run, the less a heart breaks over blushing leaves and forgetful blooms. Queen Ann's lace, chicory, and black-eyed Susan – such a regrettable name for a flower. The colors of leaving.
Finally, rain. Cerulean hydrangea heads tap and bow under curtains of lowering relief. The glass room off the back of the house almost makes me part of the storm. I guess I love the release of a deluge. Sheets of water spilling over the eaves splatter into the thirst. My thirst; can we talk about it?
Whatever is outward has embroidered an internal map on my watery heart. No matter how many times the course is shred, a reckoning comes. I will take “no” for an answer but the cartography still keeps my gaze east. My feet prepare. My knees bruise. My throat still whispers a thirsty consent.
Rainwater burns off the pavement and Thursday resumes. In a misted offering, the question I refuse to entertain shimmers in a prismatic curve. One waits on universe and needles the future to pass the time.