Aug
20
2018
in my yard
the trees are dying.
okay, only two out of seven
but they’re my favorite two and
when i walk outside
to listen to whispers
i hear the sounds of mourning.
.
already
i feel time slipping through bent fingers
already
i’ve picked a place to bury sun-bleached bones
already
i’m learning the words
to a song i’d prefer not to sing
.
that’s not to say
i don’t watch the sunset
that’s not to say
i don’t smile when the moon
knocks on my window
that’s not to say
i don’t sing with the robin at sunrise
it’s just to say
i notice.
the trees are dying.
.
.
.
