Acer Sacharrum

Somewhere in the summer sun,

Where dandelions dance and sing

Along with the bluebird’s lonesome cry,

Alone, you’ll find me, lying there

Between the grass seed and maple leaves,

What

is this, this viscous liquid I’m drowning in, something dark and opaque, I cannot breathe—

What is

Slowly,

I stand, 

simmering in the seraphic summer sun, softly

stammering silly sayings,

smiling at the shining sky.

Solemnly, 

I sit,

in the scenes of September, singing

I’m moving. 

I’ve found a little place in the Past, 

It’s not much but I think it’s quite lovely, very dear, 

And things aren’t working out Here, 

So I’m settling for memories. 

It begins —

This thing call Spring —

With sunshine and birdsong

Slowly infused into everything.

It begins with

Deep brown rivers gauged in viscous dirt roads,

As the frozen ground thaws and overflows.

I painted my nails blue

because I couldn’t think what else to do 

to stop myself from thinking of you.

I didn’t realize until they dried,

it was the very color of your eyes: