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pines

In the heat Here centrally, amidst, amongst, between Swimming in sweat and sodden with the strength of the sun - I can remember the pines Those straightened and erect Stiff with the righteousness of winters to come

"What are you watching?" "Blue's Clues" "Again! You watched that for three hours." "Blue's Clues!" "Ok, Ok." "It's time for mailtime!" "Uh-huh..." "Look Look!, And Magenta's there!" "Uh-huh..." "Magenta and Blue... best friends!" "Yup."

As a squirrel you burrow, you burrow from the dog that's been chasing you down the street and in and out between the oak tress for the past mile, you burrow to hid the acorns that are poking at the thin skin puffed out in bulbous balloons at your cheeks, you burrow and you burrow all day long to reach a soft and cozy spot to nap in while that same dog patrols the tree he's sniffed your nest out in. As a squirrel, you burrow. It's easy enough, it's life.

speak

unhinge those jaws, loose those gears past your tonsils, let them turn and grind, relaxing the tendons of your vocal cords. you hear that dust phewing into the air, that squeaking groan and complaining of that voice you've kept hidden inside, that slow and quiet release? speak.

end

the period, it splits. it's a finalizer, the signature at the end of the contract, the promise that what came before is finished. at the end, it's a point a blemish but... what if it is a signal for the beginning the cheaky wink of a beauty mark - not a blemish its a twinkle, a wink, the attraction. Period.

what do we really, truly, certainly master that is entirely of our own, individual, innocent creation/copyright?

the noise pointed high like a mountain, it peaks about the clouds and tufts of hair and down he looks, with the eyes of Zeus and the judgement of his thunder and lightning, bolts that flash in the cold calculation of his gaze haughty all-knowing (even miscalculated as it is) and there, is the vote

must

It's a quiet scent, underneath it all, lingering. It doesn't yell for you, scream for you, shout for it. It waits. It floats there, just under the shimmer of his over indulgent smile, the shine of his over enthusiastic gaze. It's a hazy, unfocused scent - blurring his crisp edges and softening them with its cotton must.

you gather them and pick them, like the puffs of daffodils, those seedy things that blow so easily from the exhale of your breathing, you pick them as the child that wanders through the grassy hills by the sidewalk, wandering away from their parents outstretched arms. picking picking picking, and as you continue on, the slight brush of your fingertips against each experience, they lightly flutter and scatter, so easily disturbed, effervescent and ethereal, so easily here and so easily gone.

barrels plum wine, stained soaked, and dark barrels the whiskey, amber, jeweled, you frozen inside barrels the beer, deep oak, charred wood

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