Acer Sacharrum

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: