…but we call it summer. Walked my dogs in this today:
Isn’t it supposed to be summer until the 22nd? And after that it’s supposed to be some season called ‘fall’… but I think that’s just a crazy rumour. Can anyone confirm this?
for a hollow morning
By my feet
wild roses are whispering
tragedies through the fescue
grass; dramas caught on the wind.
Another prairie summer.
amorous clouds shed
kisses for concrete
Originally posted on Some call it red:
you’re looking for something
you’re not even sure what it is
you reached your hand out for it
but it was gone
You missed it
a clear moment
when you can see everything as it really is
and everyone is human
the same as you
and you’re dizzy
You don’t know how you got here
but in this moment
you’ve forgotten your doubts
and that thing that you were looking for
is with you now
because it always was
and in this moment
there’s no hesitation
and you’re not afraid
because usually you’re spinning
but here you can see
You were never really spinning at all
in the book shop under poetry
two strangers whispering
the first, “why is poetry so expensive?“
the second, “because poets are starving.“
I think that I could stand
to lose a few pounds
and then wonder briefly
whether it’s best
to stop writing
or skip dinner.
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