summer is slow and heavy green 

making planning hard

and daydreaming fuzzy

.

my body is healing 

and that too is slow 

making dancing a memory 

.

the clock drags its hands 

as sun swallows sky

I try to stay rooted 

.

I hum without song

a sort of blue-like sky

making days pass gently 

the air was heavy like a Carolina bay in July

there was a sweetness that pushed limits, 

like magnolias in the night at last bloom

.

sounds of road equipment 

were North Philly and smells of industry 

were Rittenhouse Square homeless 

.

my hair blew across my face 

with a  whiff of highland perfume 

and a tinge of woodsmoke 

.

a train whistle heralded another century 

when the town had lochs

and there was growth on the river  

.

my brightly painted toes were a whimsy

from a decade of primal excess 

and each step felt as good as breathing 

.

the town clock chimed, same now as then

which meant time was the same 

meaning little when you don’t pay attention

This week feels like walking encased

in cobwebs, shuddering and sputtering 

without making any difference

except to make things worse.

.

“Why is everything a battle?” he cried

to the music in the background 

as he drove everywhere too fast. 

.

There are no answers, only signs

meaning everything and nothing depending 

how literate you are with the heart. 

.

The sign said to go forward a day at a time 

which feels like trying to count sand in 

an hourglass then releasing it on the beach. 

.

In a world of todays, it’s hard to see

destinations when roads twist and jar,

making what’s ahead look like a wilderness.

.

“There’s always time,” she told me 

but I knew better. We don’t always have a tomorrow.