A remembered shade
of brownish-yellowish-greenish-grey
from the sidewalk
that fought mighty tree roots
and lost,
bearing its wounds proudly
only to be pounded
into submission
in my friend’s cul-de-sac.

We were nine
and we stepped over cracks
solemnly.

A feathered system
spread darkly
like conditional surrender,
a feast of summer winds
intruding upon winter.

“You don’t leave easily,” he said.
But leaving is irrelevant to me;
it’s staying despite foibles that matters.

Evenings wrapped
in such a way
to endear the listener to sing along,
albeit like a whip-poor-will
and not the sage sleeping varmint.

He saw
that I had extra limbs
and it made no difference.
What’s another smothering embrace
when it’s raining?
Hours were spent
tangled
in discourse about patterns–
bruising speech left to bloom.

Red is only a theory in dreams,
though I think flying tastes like rust
and landing is optional.

In a quest
to find meaning,
we look to our second toes
and ink blots,
buttercups on chins,
tea dregs, star patterns,
and lyrics read backwards
when really
there is no other moment
that matters more than now.

You told me to follow her,
confess, reach, sing.
But how far?

From the inner coil
of a child beaten mid-phrase
to avoiding the knock of bitter ancestors,
was my story
to be a whisper (not sung-
even crows would strain at the edges)…
or could the minutiae be rich
like a glaze on a cake,
the details of my spinning memory
a delicious antidote (anecdote?)
to save myself?

She put on her mother’s coat,
turned on the car,
and died.

But I am fighting that dream to oblivion.
To live the excitable gift.

I am 45, reaching for tomorrow,
sometimes at the expense
of today, since so many yesterdays
sucked color away.
I can fill in the spaces myself now.