Little Etude

I could barely keep
my eyes open after digging
in the dirt, out in full sun,

hands mint-wreathed as though
tomorrow might never come—
The soil warm

as affection, clouds
banked somewhere else; rain held
temporarily in abeyance— How easy

to forget how the end of a breath
has the same sound as a sigh;
how the scent, the music,

become richer and more clear
as the body leans deeper
toward its fall—


In response to thus: small stone (242).

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