Restless nights, languid mornings.
Moments of sheer silence.
“Should we…” “When we…” “Are we…?”
Coffee more salient.
The wind sharper.
Birds more harmonious.
Garden interlopers bolder.
Worry, release.
Evening drives like oxygen on a starved fire.
The slow consumption of flickering logs mesmerizing.
The rose garden like a blanket of pastel and the redwoods a maze of filtered light.
A dog’s bark like an analogue clock.
The cool of the bedroom pressing like a weight.
Infant strawberries earn their twinge of color.
A flutter rises in the chest.
Darting eyes in the face of strangers.
Black ink on gray, headline roulette.
“When can we?” “How can they?” “How dare he...?”
Traipse room to room, shuffling the days wear from surface to surface.
Crack the window, pull the drapes, let the light leak and climb.
Swelling onto dusty furniture, over wilted poppies.
Watch the dog slink and expand into the sliver of warmth.
Thread the needle, grease the pan, empty the sink.
Graze the strawberry, mist the tomato, fill the feeder.
Graze the strawberry, mist the squash, rinse the bath.
Graze the strawberry, trim the basil, spread the soil.
Match the sock, crease the napkin, close the cabinet.
Dream in color.
Wake.
Graze the strawberry, mist the tomato, fill the feeder.