May 18
Yellow Sweater's picture

Propped Up Sky

Cycling along the flat cement at sunset, we hear the frog song. It swells, candid and all-consuming. It’s like drinking plain mint tea on a bitter evening. But winter is gone now, we must find our sharpness elsewhere. 

Even the Douglas firs have become dry in this new heat. Even after a rainstorm, I see them struggling to breathe. My home is supposed to become a utopia before it dies. How many years do we have again? How many years do I have to live with unnaturally ripe strawberries and swans that have decided to stay for winter?