The crickets chorus calmly and
clouds dance across the sky
while I lose myself quite fully in
their reflection in your eyes.
The sun is slowly slipping and
we sit soft and still
so that we can revel in
the world’s nightly theatre, filled.
(day one hundred and forty-three)
There are certain things that sneak up on you - time, emotions, and mischievous cats.
Phone calls. Missed connections. Forgotten friends. Packages in the mail.
Drawers filled with letters from people who no longer write.
The weather turns green, and then abruptly white.
Hot and blaring, it stares you down and never blinks.
Milk sours in the sun, and ten feet away, tea is born into it.
Bees busily bumble from bloom to bloom, making honey that you’ll never taste.
And we will never be more content to simply lay and waste.
Viens avec moi.