It hardly seems believable that it was barely a week ago that I was waking up to the sound of waves and walking off a veranda right onto the soft sand. It hasn’t taken long for the stress of work and the end-of-the-school-year crazy to set in. So…this.
Finally spring, we scribe our skins
with shapes of flowers, steal water
from birdbaths for our strange
ablutions. After this, we will not be
the same. Our fragile bones will steel
our loneliness, single socks drawn
from the dryer and reunited, our
sadness clean and shed, all of our
dry skins curled in storage to share
as stories in our old age. We will pluck
the new shoots from sun-streaked
meadows, shine scratches our throats.
Steam rises from the dew in early
morning, soaks our sleeves with mist.
Inside, a kettle sings on the stove.
It sings summer, summer, summer.