Cellular

When we walk into the house, the storm door takes
a moment to shut itself.

Now I try to pay attention to where else there might be
small signs of resistance.

The bony side of my big toe chafes against the inside
of my leather shoe.  

Someone was telling me about a game developed by a 
mathematician, designed for the observation of how a seed
or cell evolves within a system.

Any live cell with fewer than two live neighbors dies, 
as if by underpopulation.

Or reproduces and lives on to the next generation.
And so on.

When my daughter found out about dogwood berries,
she picked two from a tree we pass on the way 
to our favorite cafe.

My most elusive memory is of a field of white,
rippled and alive; and of my feet barely touching
the surface.

I always think I have time, until it proves me wrong.

We wait for the promised taste of custardy sweetness.

Some kinds of ripeness are needed by birds before
their long migrations.