I always care more.
I idly am, I diddle-daddle on smoldering summer days.
I cannot control curses muttered under your
breath, but yet I stand idle; as I cannot bring myself to do much more.
It is imperative that on days like today, you continue to channel sunshine. You are my sunshine; you are a
nursery rhyme just like that.
It is in you that I’ve found comfort: unceasing, unrelenting, unforeseen comfort.
I take your comfort to the garden with me and lay under a tree. I wonder why willow trees whisper to me the way they so often do. They’re particularly talkative on days like today, days that I cannot get you out
of my mind. Whisper, whisper,
Oh, I miss her.
It is not that I haven't got better things to do, or that I like to idle. Rather, it is that I've found a source of
summertime in your eyes, and I cannot (despite the ever-growing list of thoughts in my head) deem something more worthy of reflection.
But today, the vines reversed and swirled in new patterns, putting
pitter-patter on the mind, now. It is raining.
The sky rumbles rapidly as I run right to your door.
Creak lets me in.
Slam sees me out.
I wonder if doors always had poor manners, or if they’re just designed that way.
Surely my door is far more polite than hers.
I whistle and whimper along the path we used to walk together.
Idly by I’ll be, waiting for a more friendly door.
Until then, I ought to lay under willow trees so I can see your face again.
The heat had happened, and passed it had--
When it rains in the garden, it pours.
Mar 13, 2019
Mar 13, 2019 at 10:21 PM UTC
I always care more.
I idly am, I diddle-daddle on smoldering summer days.
I cannot control curses muttered under your
breath, but yet I stand idle; as I cannot bring myself to do much more.
It is imperative that on days like today, you continue to channel sunshine. You are my sunshine; you are a
nursery rhyme just like that.
It is in you that I’ve found comfort: unceasing, unrelenting, unforeseen comfort.
I take your comfort to the garden with me and lay under a tree. I wonder why willow trees whisper to me the way they so often do. They’re particularly talkative on days like today, days that I cannot get you out
of my mind. Whisper, whisper,
Oh, I miss her.
It is not that I haven't got better things to do, or that I like to idle. Rather, it is that I've found a source of
summertime in your eyes, and I cannot (despite the ever-growing list of thoughts in my head) deem something more worthy of reflection.
But today, the vines reversed and swirled in new patterns, putting
pitter-patter on the mind, now. It is raining.
The sky rumbles rapidly as I run right to your door.
Creak lets me in.
Slam sees me out.
I wonder if doors always had poor manners, or if they’re just designed that way.
Surely my door is far more polite than hers.
I whistle and whimper along the path we used to walk together.
Idly by I’ll be, waiting for a more friendly door.
Until then, I ought to lay under willow trees so I can see your face again.
The heat had happened, and passed it had--
When it rains in the garden, it pours.