sitting there in that same pink bedroom wondering where my days will unfold. when that moment will come. will i see it coming or will the sky collapse on me as i lean from the car to get the mail. and it is summer there, always, when i think of my home. warm skin, beach hair, the sound of my dad mowing the lawn and my mother moving through the kitchen. peepers peeping, the buzz of the high tension wires, nana glo calling her cat in down the street.
there is no suicide, no divorce, no feeding tubes and no failing bodies --
just the silence of a flower ending and beginning, ending-and-beginning, ending, and, beginning its bloom.
No comments:
Post a Comment