There’s less noise

with the window closed

but mountains call

the gaze to roam

.

we’re not talking weather

or stocks or death by committee

.

but the myth of serenity

as it floats like laughter

from some faraway childhood

I’m in a place I must be quiet,

be reserved, behave.

It’s a genuine struggle, especially

some days when I want to laugh too loudly

and spin in a circle like in a meadow,

when I’d rather stare at the sky

and find us in cloud shapes

instead of endure corporate-speak

and carpeting and files.

.

Today I am purple inside and grey outside.

I avert my wild-eyes so no one notices.

I am behaving except in daydreams.

The window cracked open

by design or a forgotten thing,

air rushing in, hot and steamy

with summer breath

.

heavy with the last burst of green

before the brown of late season

grass and dried ponds

.

nowhere for frogs to go

but a leftover puddle

nothing to be done indoors

but watch through the window

.

a season that lingers

as dragonflies dance

quiet, with angular revelry.

The windshield has bug guts smeared

there’s a circus tent by the highway –

flea market or revival, hard to tell

.

Dawn stretches into muggy morning

careening towards where I don’t want to go

the sky looks like my bruised heart

.

I can’t bear music so I hear my breath

and my car rattles forward, like me

a second-rate girl in a shabby world

bees in clover

a dozen shades of blue

shimmering across the lake

dancing clouds swallowing the sky

red-winged blackbirds frolicking

the way summer should be

with a breeze beneath a tree

laughter not far away

a small victory of green