It’s harder now to seebeautiful thingslike exhortations to skyin a rock song or the way the catlicks between her toes while bathing.These days, I might listento the whole record not hearinga single word, feed kittywhen she meows but keep going.I barely noticed various shadesof scorched grass blanketedwith wet leaves, and it must have beenbefore that when my foxglove browned.I am quite aware of the cold spaceon my thigh where your handshould rest, the bitterness of eachsip of discount coffee, my tailbone.I know that isn’t much.
Linking this up in solidarity and very, very late to Karin’s prompt in the Imaginary Garden: Thinking of the Little Things