July lets blue sky loose.
Morning begins with an extravagance of sun and shadow trembling across bending grass. Flowers and spiders and topaz toads are baptized in light bright enough to hurt the heart. It is in this time that I bear witness to the eminence of individual trees and leaves and grasses. A rabbit sips at the creek and a moth scrawls secret letters over hosta blooms. I see all of this and scoop it into my breast. Yet, it is never enough to fully protect from the cavern I will undoubtedly disappear into at some point during the day.
Tea on the back deck.
A firefly far from night lands on the freckled terrain of the back of my hand. Joy for one full second is the currency of eternity. I'm wondering about color; what color is your silence? What color is your harm?
At night, Ursa claws up my back toward some other apex. Hours pass with no beginning. Then again, morning. Sometimes I just get so tired of the words. Instead: digging vines, moving shrubs, laying stones just so, working until my fingertips go numb. Finally the heat of summer translates all the waiting unto being. My shoulders turn brown and warm. On days like these I see my image in the east-eating windows and it tumbles me – so this is the woman you see. You, you, you.