Blades of grass on the back of my hand, a limitless and somehow deep
sky, like in childhood. A forlorn flag hangs
outside the house – it’d like the wind to make it smile,
to unfurl its wrinkles and folds, smooth out the creases.
On the way back: the forest’s contours don’t conceal a love
for clarity, time returns to the threshold of
memories like the vaults of sunshine that glint
in the morning dew. Nothing is lost. A
stork’s nest high atop a post, the wind rippling
in bindweed cities along the shoulder. Evening arrives along
velvety shores as along soft cheeks.