to the sun

going cynthia says about the poem to go
stamped and enveloped
as i place it in the mailbox

upon exiting karma i catch a view of
baigz and ty leaning in for a hug
both in flannel,
one wearing a blue hoodie and one
whose blue hoodie is draped over the leopold bench
and me walking away thinking
about how great it is to live in a place
where this happens/this is the culture

hot enough in the hoophouse that
for the first time this season,
my shoulders and my back/stomach
are offered
to the sun

how the white dust rises and drifts
off the freshly graded road when the
wind picks up or when a car
rumbles/rambles over its
stirred-up surface

the apple tree branch arcing over
me loaded with white blooms about
to burst open

the slosh of pond water
in plastic watering cans
(one in each hand) as i haul
the liquidy weight up the slope
to rows of kale and collards
in the hoophouse

something about the settled quiet/stillness
of the highway as i walk it smashed up against
the whoosh/roar of each lone car/van/truck
as it approaches, passes and recedes
layered with the joy of walking with
a small backpack knowing
there’s a good book tucked inside


the rustle in the woods
that leads my eyes to the small faerie door
(arched opening) at the base of a tree
on the south side of woehrle road that
i’ve never noticed in all my comings/goings
(via car, bike and sometimes walking)until today

i want to know the story of that door i say to mica
about the hinged wood
whose porcelain knob i turn
every morning

first real thunderstorm of the season
(as opposed to the first thunderstorm i wrote
on the calendar last week) whose rain
falls so hard and loud against
the metal roof that i can smell it
through sealed shut windows


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