Wind rolled over hills

and sun left shadows

resembling cypresses;

I felt a tingle

like third kisses

(when we knew what we were doing)

making me believe

what’s in my head

is fighting to get out

but an ever-present weight

spilled from my heart onto the road

and I passed right through

like a summer storm,

fast and hard.

Wings beat somewhere across the state

and my valley was overcome

by unholy winds

and scathing showers;

before sundown,

the dragonfly was lost

in the parking lot of the big box store

and I could only laugh

at the mechanics of worry.

I’m having granola at my desk.

The sun is shining on the other side

of concrete and brick and glass.

I’m in a file room. There’s dust,

but it’s not like the honest happy dust

of manual labor, but rather the sad

lethargic dust of forgotten playground

daydreams. I had raisins earlier.

They reminded me of sun from when

I was about seven and disheveled

in my poncho and sandals.

I had no idea I’d be expected to conform

or that I’d always fall short.

Daydreams at seven taste too sweet at 47.

I adjust my scarf and say thank you

to the woman who says she likes my hair.

She says, “how brave” and I cringe

because the grey is not my idea of valor.

I feel bravest when I step out of bed

and face a day I wouldn’t have chosen

but it’s mine and it’s ok because

I’m still disheveled and like sweet dreams.

I rest my chin on the windowsill;

the shadows on the valley

confuse me, all buttery

and slippery, never staying

long enough to be

a tree or a man or a town.

I would like to be held,

I whisper into the glass;

The weather forecast made me

cry and whether it was

the falling barometric pressure

or the severe drop in estrogen,

I understood Chicken Little

like never before

and just hoped I’d survive

until the next surge.