43 Readings | 0 Ratings

January 19th

The mist’s husk

splinters slowly,

 

day protruding through

the dew’s ochre and leaves.   

 

Words don’t have sounds;

our thoughts about words do

 

someone said somewhere in my head

but I was busy trying to listen

 

to the blue

steadily stunning

 

all the cars and mountains

light, bright. My eyes

 

were closed, of course.

I was wearing my special socks,

 

my honeydew beanie.

Was in a field

 

finely attuned to dirt.

Day. Dreams.

 

No garden without weeds,

no weeds without gardens—  

 

I miss you too.

 

 

 

Posted 12/18/17
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