Asleep Behind Borders

Is our purpose simply to be at play in the unbearably exquisite fields of the Lord? I fall asleep behind borders of Black-Eyed Susans, chicory, and milkweed going to seed. Behind the dream, everyone fades – but not you. You . . . happy in your intimate toil; your New Englandy valley; your giving gardens.

I tuck two prisms under the bandana knot which secures tarot cards. I could hang them or carry them together or wear one. Or . . . one wonders why they are both still here in the first place.

Allergies on overdrive. Cicada clinging to summer. Green acorns falling more frequently now, hitting glass tables with an echo like gunshots.

The weather woman says “tropical-like.” Mosquitoes agree.

Crickets and traffic weave a song through unharvested corn. A few more dips in the lake. A few more jacket-less nights. To delight in feta and balsamic is to savor summer and me. Are we there yet?

The old woman up the street pulls an even older chihuahua named Sugar in a stroller. We share a smile and sweat in the 90 degree heat and go about our day. Is the desire to extricate oneself from this town a judgement on my brothers and sisters? Tell me there is room in Vermont.