Yellow Sweater

Moving through water 
one is very aware 
of one’s toes, 
aware of the space between them. 

The slew smell, 
the willow trees,
the boat sliding by, through, and in, 
all fit together. 

Scattered about the house are bouquets of Zinnias.
I collected them over my birthday weekend. 

I am called Zinnia. 
And Zinnia has always been synonymous with me. 

I grew up. 
A precocious little girl

The shade grew with the sun. Under the big thick leaves, the shade became solid. The line between insistent energy and gentle dark turned bold. I lay with her on the grass, exhausted. Dry tears hung in my eyes like long evaporated dew.

The wheat fields smelled like Chamomile.
I dragged my feet through the dust. 
The sun was as sharp as the wind was soft. 
I walked on, 
against my body, 
the dead weight of my arms. 
I even ran, 

I sit under a silver-barked tree, waiting for the rain to start again. The delicate yellow leaves tremble with the left-over weight of last night’s downpour. The tree is wet and tired and waiting for the next storm.

We met in a stationary shop. He was toying with an exceptionally fine pen. I thought he had nice hands. They were strong, yet oddly delicate. I could see his thoughts twirling with the pen.