Putting away the sun dresses, the summer has carried us here– there’s an edge in the sky, a mix of blue with hard tin, wan through half-shut blinds as the window wiper descends in a perilous descant. Some movements are immovable, their arc and conclusions, fixed.
We all came through the night unscathed to the first day of Spring slow to arrive no different than the last day a dead sky hesitant rain I’m not so gullible as to try and balance eggs and brooms and the like but must admit I feel a sort of stasis as in something surely is holding us in place
OPTIONAL POETRY 