Wind circles. Apricots fall.
Noises from the highway drift upward.
like water from streams that splinter against rocks,
a car horn becomes a splash,
an arrival that moves toward
then away from me,
the only thing that opens the day’s stillness, stirs nests.
Early, I feed horses, fill troughs.
Ice I break with warmer water.
In the afternoon I stalk crows, hunt lizards,
pitch stones across the surface of the pond.
Each stone flies further than the last,
each stone, a note that rings.
I count the circles of sunlight, listen to fins.
I run through sheets my grandmother pins on the clothesline,
wrap myself up like a ghost,
turn my face into a mask,
live inside the laughter I become.
Where my voice takes shape,
my arms fly open wide as barn doors.
Let’s say it is fearlessness.
Let’s say it is the completeness of love.
Let’s say it is being for all the right reasons,
here, where my grandmother sits in her lawn chair,
quiet as silk, here,
where the brim of her hat scoops upward,
a veil of shade I sail past as she watches me
squirt the wind with the garden hose,
shake the water from my hair,
my laughter as loose as I will ever know it,
all these years gone
like the ringing on the pond,
where a breeze shuffles through me thick with love.
It’s summer this dream.
And she is the breeze. She is the pond.
Get the new issue, Confrontation 119, Spring 2016.