Thunderheads push like roses, straining the fatal meringue. Dragonflies, squirrel chatter. On the trail where the dog waits, bear scat, shotgun shells, and thirty year old beer cans. Think of soil as an ocean but slower.
The blur of fists a form of nightly meditation. Is lightening ever obscure? One tree is still while another sways like a drunk trying to make it through a doorway. A dream of garden roses blossoming in frames that almost overrun each other.
A heat like billows rising slowly through the corn. A photograph of which I was once proud, and wrote a poem about, which to this day I do not regret having published. The tassels hung limply as if in a painting. A drop of rain on the blueberries made me dream of hurricane lamps.
“You blow up over every little thing.” “You don't have any passion for anything.” “That's it – you're out of here.” “I can't believe he said that to me, that way.”
Crack the window, rain might cool things down. All night behind the garage, wondering is it this storm or another that will finally empty the house. Where yesterday I walked an owl now cries. But all that happened so long ago.
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