still

Rainfall, trees and sky: they are precious, but they are not mine.
What happened to kickball, lace trimmed socks and the taste of earwax?
My neighbors must have taken them when I stood still, with my head tilted back to watch the heat lightning.
I held the kickball in both hands and my eyes to the clouds.
Maybe I left them there, when Mom’s lavender still bloomed by the side of the house, where the cement foundation shown gray.
This is where the chipmunks lived, the ones the cat watches all day. She waits for me to drive back and ask her name. Her window watches my world.
They are all precious, but they are not mine.
I don’t remember the colors of our shirts or our kickball, and maybe it wasn’t even lavender that bloomed against august nights.
I have no flowers. I have no house.
I am warm and you are glass, somewhere in the past.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s