The clock was dead -- a blatant homicide
I curled into the yard swing
and let it rock me
not to sleep, but to a lazy mental limbo
one finger a bookmark in my Tolkien book
(Frodo can manage without me for a while,)
the other hand trailing among the grass and the blushing clover
as I stare straight up into China’s morning, my view oscillating
from green canopy
to blue sky touched with white whorls
and pricked by leaf-laden branches
and then back to canopy
The wind pushes two strands of my Sheryl Crow haircut into one eye;
instead of lifting a whole arm, I just blow them
back into place
and that hot breeze is what August tastes like.
Back to Stuff I Wrote.
© Cynthia 2002.