Robins. A poem.

The robins and I

regarded

each other, as if neither were a surprise

but simply the intertwining 

of the world.

The river birch struggles

above us, a victim of last year’s

drought.

This is not a surprise, either.

The world is harsh,

after all.

summertime real. a poem.

I love the smell of summer,

soil like unsweetened chocolate

bittersweet

under my nails, my

skin

stretching out, welcoming the hard press

of heat,

heavy and thick,

making me feel

real

summer truth rising. a poem. 

HEAT.

rising with the sun

then

PRESSING

hard

against my heart. i STEP

hesitant

on the newly mown 

grass, the FOLDING and BENDING

of each FRAGILE strand

crisp then 

cool

between my toes

too long stuffed in winter

shoes, each step 

FREEDOM,

the bright red of the trumpet

vine SCREAMING

with the release of

TRUTH.

every stamen stretching,

reaching 

for

HOPE.