there is a modest
one-story home
with white stucco walls
and a red tiled roof
waiting for me somewhere
near a floridian beach.

the yard is flat and dry.
some days, i’ll lie there
on top of a patterned quilt
in a two-piece
hand over brow
reading a thick memoir
on loan from the library
that sits on the other side
of the brush, beyond
the wooden fence.

winter will just be a memory.
every week, my toenails
will sink into the sand
wearing a different shade of pink.
i will not fold away
my sundresses and shove them
under the bed.
they will only leave
their wooden hangers
to be worn and washed.

time simply records the falling
and growing and falling of things.
one of these days,
i will be the budding lily
pushing up dirt
to greet the other side with
all of the beauty
i am ready to be.

i have fallen enough.