Unplanted

Soft nights of starlight and peeper poems.

Though soothed by rounded darkness, some things still have edges. The garden remains unplanted. Weeds overtake perennials. The dog would rather watch young rabbits dart about from her porch cushion than give chase. This strange cyclical dream need not be labeled “sad” or “lonesome.”

And yet.

Purple distance, my consummate teacher. The problem with being the first one up is that I always have to finish the leftover coffee. Mom interrupts the flow of conversation to say that there are so many more turtles this year. Though, she adds, a bald eagle came by and plucked a large turtle right out of the water yesterday.

Woodpeckers drumming into a humid, dewy dawn. How vivid, this life! Yet how utterly far away.

She kept trying to tell me how sex becomes less desired. Yet I thought the battles of wanting and not getting or giving and wanting or not wanting and not giving would go on forever – as in, that is the nature of the dance or of the beast or of whatever other saying works best for you.

Who is worthy is not here. Who is here has lost fire. Who has fire is unclear. Who is unclear becomes faint and disappears into the last of the morning mist.