Starting with a kiss of grass,
morning tastes like when I was a girl
– before the smoke
and yet after I knew
how clouds mattered
more than ‘us’
and counting steps
to the backyard
was better than coins.
I close my eyes,
inhaling sun, exhaling doubt.

It struck me,
six minutes ago,
while viewing rum in the fading sunlight–
A whole life
is not ahead anymore-
not with all the unpaved roads
or wild stags standing guard
Not even with music freely spilling
over lush valleys
Half of it is gone
and I am here, waiting
Maybe there’s something big coming
or maybe this is the big moment,
filled with smaller breaths,
where I slip into the small window
of time I’m allowed, grateful

Rail-splitters don’t often get lost
in cyberspace
and when they stroke themselves,
it’s most often to the cadence
of old Chevy turn signals-
you know, the ones on dusty,
almost-forgotten intersections
near stations with the most heartache.

Heavy timber aside,
fatigue (from fresh air)
draws stalwart pickle-eaters
to diners with open-faced sandwiches
and lots and lots of gravy.
Coffee mistaken for counsel,
grumbles covering pride,
old men fighting for place.

No room for an ode
where a limerick may go,
words to such men
are akin to reading a backwards clock,
hoping to predict weather
by counting knee aches and cricket chirps.
They split hours, laughing at young love
keeping their coffee and gravy in place.

Morning has been so quiet,
I can hear the humming
of my house-
refrigerator, clock’s second hand,
whirring fan, laptop charging.
My own breath sounds enormous
and when I open a window,
birds scream and the sky laughs with wind.
I stay just inside the door,
unsettled within but not at all sure
I want to go out.
Moving freely but days ago,
shivering in place now.

I would like to tuck away
these times in-between.

no, I am not rust or caramel
but I love those things
and they take up
inordinate space
in my imagination

will you read to me
on a rainy afternoon?