the thread of
summer
pulls
carrying the sleep
of the long grass

the leaves fall
like crumpled
paper birds
early shadows
fold and
unfold with
the upturned
pulse of the trees

by tomorrow
the passing
rush of the geese
will have forgotten
our separate hands
the sound
of our footsteps
falling in and
out of time

your hand rests
on the edge
of the kitchen table
there is no
silence here
only the light fading
like the slow
leaking of breath

an apple sits
on the counter
soft lines curving
into the white
shadow of the wall
we take the curtain
turning like a page
in restless sleep
and the sound
of the rain
murmurs cold against
the window

the dogwood trees
are blooming
their petals
tipped in the silver
of the morning
rain

i'm beginning to like
the quiet again
the shifting hands
of the clock
brushing hours
against my shoulder

i found your footprints
by the lake
where the sand
met the lazy
tongue of the water

i wanted to tell you
about the oranges
on the counter
the soft curl
of their peels
growing dimmer
in the fading light

there is a red sun
setting in the mountains
i remembered your letter
on the kitchen table
unraveling the unsteady pulse
of your memory
into the half light

where are the early mornings?
the music playing
quietly as the pale
warmth of the ocean
passes like a mirror
beside the windows
of my car

we each keep sending
our own regrets

soft heels answer
on the sidewalk
i watch the lines
of her hips move
against the shadowed
fabric of her skirt
there's not enough
distance in the brittle
push of early autumn
it shifts the naked
rest of browning leaves
and loves no one