The wasp draws closer, sunlight making its wings appear like polished mahogany. Thérèse returns me to Dickinson, who homes in me like rara avis, getting me close to a fire I am still too scared to sit beside. I'd like to help others more than hurt them, and often this is accomplished simply by being careful not to be around anyone too long. The care some people take dressing! Apple trees, hemlocks, maple trees. Rose quartz. All around me now are hundreds of unfurling ferns, each insisting on graces that are no longer secretive, mysterious, hidden. If I still kissed, I'd kiss someone which, I kind of do so, what are you up later today? Let me walk a little way toward to the river, see what happens in the tall grass among butterflies and katydids.
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