summer has burned up,
blown past, the thermometer
sinks stone-like, its silvers
dulled in metal tombs
no longer spiking red.

the wet leaf hangs lower
on the twig, the bird balances
on the branch, the day
fragments, its grey clouds
flowing under swiftly
closed doors.

Just as slowly
as she waxes and wanes
In my youngest
all I did was gaze

The first time I slept outside
I stepped into the middle of the night
Covered
In a light blue dew and when I saw her
I dried up. She was becoming full
And small
and I was just
Becoming unbecoming

Kind-hearted broken soul. Trying to replace what people stole.