Girl
Girl sits near Homer stroking Cupid
Her head clutched by knees, her eyes looking at darkness of her sweatpant’d lap.
Too exhausted to fight gravity today (I know it) and doesn’t want to let Earth’s wetness tickle her back
or soil her sweatpants?
Or too exhausted to fight the other gravity, the one that comes with birth.
She argues with the day, argues with her boyfriend, argues with herself
but relents by looking up to let the bright blurry blue sky soak her vision.
Captured by the grass she is—the others won’t enter her,
Because in this moment, she might think she is safe.
The End of Things
It always rains at the end of things.
Winds blow when we reunite,
Ignite, to heat but burn,
Comforting mellow gazes.
These winds that can only induce passion tickle passion’s sufferers.
The gray Earth, replenished by rains,
blown by winds, scorched by fire, and soaked again.
Apple Weekend
The kids in the meadow drape themselves over each other
And the cows across the way wander alone to healthier grass tufts
Their difficulties are in surviving
Ours are in thriving
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