Beginning in a night,
and lasting through.
Shock.
Bitterness.
Few bursts of anger.
Talking,
sharing,
secrets told.
Sadness,
tears,
and longing.
"Why?" Rained down with other questions.
To the point,
of dismissive.

"I don't want to be a girl,
I want to be a turtle."

There were happy notes,
permitted as they were.
Amongst,
Friends.
Family.
Myself.

Back.
Up.
Beautiful was/is:
butterflies,
overturned and stuck,
ocean water confining them,
to a shorter life,
when the waves wash,
higher, higher,
plucked away.
From the wet sand,
lifted into the sky,
brought to a plant,
two,
maybe three, made it.

Of cats,
strays though they were,
with food and beds under the pier.
Of the lady,
who shared her lunch,
crawling under the deteriorating boards,
to fill their bowls.

Fast-forward.
To friends,
rejoined with smile.
Though sad with an emotional pain,
of laying there,
in self.
Best friend-talks.
Friend-talks.
Family-talks.
Person-to-dog talks.
All these.

Seventy,
in the dark,
with no music.

Then July.
Fireworks,
on the seventh,
shared on the third.
A slight battle for a chair,
settled with laughter as half went to one,
and other to other.

Of walking,
in the rain,
after and before,
not during.
The ground is damp,
music pulsates.
Removed,
then off.
Birds,
the name of the wind,
two ways,
beautiful.
The sounds,
remembrance,
of home,
of before,
of the present,
of the during that became the past.
A deep pit,
opened,
also happiness.

Beautiful things are,
the wind tousling short hair: present,
thunder and lightning rolling in: present,
wrestling on the floor: past,
filled with a sudden joy as soon as a presence (his) was spotted: past,
shooting games: past
first kiss: past,
first love: past.

Of remembering,
the good and the bad,
the tough ways of learning,
of forgiveness,
of a new experience,
of tears for new reasons,
of the word "olive,"
of messing up,
of being,
of beautiful things.

"In the sky,
above the clouds,
are more clouds."

(and release)