Little flowers blushing red and green in the compost.
Crepuscular branches light as air.
Interiors that expand.
Torn up, tossed aside, forgotten.
What I can explain and what I cannot explain, which is not at all related to what can be explained and what cannot be explained.
Pickup trucks, tire swings, coiled hoses.
Horses moving away from the fence, down a little slope.
Sweeping sounds on the back stairs, even when nobody is sweeping there.
Onions coming back, kale coming back, mint coming back.
Collard greens bright beneath early May sun coming back.
Folks arguing is this the parsonage or is the parsonage an even older building up the street as if "both" were not an answer.
Waiting on apple blossoms, bees, and writing outside.
Dad gone four years this August and I do hate to be the guy who says "has it really been that long" but has it really been that long?
"All of this has something to do with memory."
Aching shoulders, the pain reaching up into my neck and lower skull, which I briefly play with pretending is stymied kundalini.
What they called my grandmother because they could not pronounce her name.
Angels attend us, including angels who know better than we do what justice is, and mercy.
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