the day i came home
In the garden, in this stillpoint moment, we do not speak. We find we have no words for endings, for winds that gasp and fall at a streetside wall, for the effervescent emerald decay of moss in pavement cracks, for the sun that yawns and stretches over leaves baked brown in silence.
In the garden, in this elongated moment, the lady butcher enters with her quick assessing look and corner smile, weighing our tendons' strength against her good left arm.
In the garden, in this clutching moment, we are silent leaf, are moss, are air. We are the desperate wish for more. We only want to go inside and talk of something else.
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estar_borja) wrote,
