May

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