I’ll know it’s really summer when the
weeds are taller than me; when the
rain washes the afternoon like a hand
sliding over a mirror
They paint such convincing blue skies
these days, even the clouds taste
just bright. I hold my breath through
another storm, cut the dog fennel,
scout for worms
If a hole opened up to heaven I would
walk right through – one hand on my
heart, another latched to the shallowest roots
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