The trees are sweating

and the flowers are thirsty.

My eyelids don’t want to cooperate.

Rocks seem to bend like water.

Minutes and hours are… sticky.

It’s a thumping pulse

of worry on a late July day.

the great green spine

wove through milky afternoons

spreading slowly

with creeping things

keeping time without a sound

but with feelers

a tender reach

stirring heavy summer air

basking in green

The explosion

was the gift

but it was so quiet,

nobody noticed.