[04 September 2019]
The road is wider now; the vernal moon hangs
suspended between branches of the
old pine tree. I hear you breathe, breath
buoyed by songs I’ve never sung, or never
knowingly, weighed down by stories I’ve
never heard, permeated by pigments and
fragments and hues of worlds I’ve never
seen, stacking up solipsism and daydreams and unfettered
emotion between the peaks of the Sierra Nevada, unencumbered
by time or chance or change. The smell of
the first frost of fall lingers
crisp and falls free on the upper right
hand corner of your lips. Late afternoon
sunlight dapples the hair on the
back of your hand and then gently diffuses
somewhere between the garden
wall and the church door and the rose
blooms on your chest.
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