I forgot about the milkweed.
I forgot the divet in the creek,
forgot that I can’t describe the sound the water makes.
I forgot that wind tastes like freedom.

Dead flowers look stark,
look more beautiful than I’d anticipated.
Raindrops cling.
The leaves let go.

I spent two weeks,
twelve weeks,
half a year between walls.
More than six feet apart, but still not an expanse,
not like here,
edge to edge vision,
farther than I can imagine reaching.

And I forgot there was this much sky,
grey, white, orange and blue.
It didn’t fit in my bedroom,
so I was left staring at the stagnant ceiling,
on cut carpet that doesn’t grow.

This place feels naive,
as if someone forgot to tell it
to become paved parking lots,
square boxes of (masked) people,
identical
to the ones on the advertisements
saying,
“Give up the flowers.
Give up the milkweed.
Give up.”

But if it’s naive, then I’ll lie down and be naive with it.

At least it isn’t gone yet.
At least something hasn’t changed.