Old Wood

Fireflies rise and fall – soft kindnesses abound in the way August arrives. Summer's light narrows and my eyes are full of chicory. Blue into blue; your image is my true face. And yet, perhaps it is time to see another way. On the jade path, ferns tickle my knees. This year more than last, I am freckled and tanned; my skin smells like sunburned pine.

Night raises a sickle moon. Midnight unties its silken sash and tiny pinpoints of forgetful light pulse in every direction. Still, a hot wind pushes leaves to chatter. Even in the dark I can see the trees slow dancing. I am so very fond of how effusive these nights can be. Earth's musk no longer has to compete with laundry machine exhaust or burgers on the grill. A mist in the black meadow erases all into balance.

The mushroom colored dawn intimates rain, but no rain falls. Plants are wilting and the ground has turned to stone. I make my way to Lake Michigan to submerge it all. I come up gasping; she takes my breath away every time. These lakes – how could I ever leave? But these winters – how could I ever stay? Michigan and my heart.

I was foolish enough once, you know? I was half-way gone.

nothing comes next
day / night / day

old wood stacks
the same