When I Look
Hallie
Summer,
when I look at your afternoon and tables I don’t know the globe thistle and celosia I see there. I don’t know the bubbles of worry either, when I try to set time in your long days. I don’t know the length of much: not the unpatterned stretches of restless space, nor the clipped carvings of boredom. I’ve overheated in the bone-bright light you always share and cried into your sunny barrens. But as the light loses its brightness for emerald-gold, I let time settle as I settle, into your starry dark |