dusting also. and that smear of white paint still on the glass.
the light of morning points out all the stuff, and in the light of morning you think you'll get to it later. when the night's aches lessen, when the book you're reading comes to its end. by the end of the day, in the still heat of the day, when your feet are up and the first cicada interrupts the silence, you'll think this weekend. it will wait.
and then the weekend comes.
mending my soul
walking into the night, into the summer night
into the surroundingness of cicada song
into the muggy starlight
it's all one, it's all one.
Three crows walk in circles around the old oak tree, and I think to myself ritual, I think to myself of dogs and cats circling before laying themselves down, I think of the story told in my father's family of a distant cousin who circled and circled in the yard, circled hard, thinking, before killing himself. Circled so hard he left his trail in the red dirt, a circle carved by thoughts. An old story, before my father's time, but I refuse to judge. Perhaps he was mending in the only way he knew how, perhaps his thread broke and he came undone. A thread breaks into the tiniest of pieces, and sometimes, despite a world full of perhapses and maybes and all the king's horses and all the king's men . . . well, you know. Sometimes the wind blows away those pieces before you can begin to put them together again.
A fourth crow appears and they all fly away.
the heat of day stays on my skin and in it,
a fever carried into the healing night,
gone by morning to begin again.
gray sky to blue.