what difference, whether she
wears her hair waist-long or
up around her ears?
her irises still shift, from
grey to blue, the smocked
dress threaded through
with green, the crickets
sing a summer song, a
summer song of april
long since gone, the golden
strands floating, tangled in the
air thick-fogged after
the driving rain has torn
the heat up from the pavement,
thrown it skywards to hang there,
obdurate, a thick soup to
push my limbs through as I
think of you, floating towards
the ceiling, my red balloon,
my joy, my lost light, the
words that greet me in the night
ever, ever, and again the
words drift up to the windowpane.
they leave their marks.
I scratch them down.
1 comment:
Thanks for writing this because it reminds me of my vacation on my grandma's hometown when I was kid. I still remember the sounds produced by the crickets. It's too bad I cant here those sounds here in the polluted city.
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