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.