less than 1 minute read

I have been unable to describe the shape
of my body. Birds sing laments, mourning
for our forgotten winter in a language
only they know, nonsense to me. The sky
is a sermon printed on cheap paper,
orange markers bleeding through the page.
My garden whispers like a fading dream
as thoughts transmute to smoke,
wisp and separate and float. Recently

too many people have died. This fog cloud
of breath, this speaking in mist feels
like a betrayal. Against whom I am not sure.

I watch beech leaves sway like incense,
invent new scripts in goose pimples,
inhale the sharp scent of lemon balm,
that has started to grow through patio cracks.
Here is my hand, the pale and blotchy skin,
the small scars from cooking mishaps
the squat thumb. Here, it is reaching
to hold the still warm coffee cup,
vapours of steam like prayers.

Listen. The robin and the chiff chaff
are starting to form full sentences.

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