jordan asks about the pressure, explains about the scapula, moves quietly about me in the perfect-temperatured room (70 something) in her bare feet

unfraying the twisted knots layered so deep
under the surface of my muscle/skin
dottie, cynthia, eric, darien and i
at a picnic table in the gazebo which is not a gazebo but i can’t recall what darien so perfectly called it
some of us licking the slow drip of chocolate vanilla soft serve swirl
and some of us licking the melt of a rice dream frozen treat and some of us
not partaking at all
it is the kind of day where
the sun couldn’t shine brighter/better
and the clouds couldn’t puff or contrast (against that bright blue) any better
and the wind couldn’t feel any less than perfect
on our faces as we roll up/down the county highway
with the sun roof open
how even the envelope itself
(the one postmarked corvalis
with sole’s handwriting
across the front and back)
has a scent
from just being near oil (doterra) spray blends
one spearmint sprig
and two peppermint sprigs
plus some stem of sweet cicily
plucked from herb garden and beyond
and dropped into my stainless drinking cup
how i prasie this season of
growing things
smoke em if you got em  i joke about the rosemary
when trish (tonight’s cook) instructs eric to go grab some from the greenhouse and says there’s one that looks dead, take from that
the hot pinks and dark red pinks and shades along that spectrum
of the sweet williams coming up
in the back of the herb garden
from which i pluck just one cluster
to add to my wild flox and sweet sicily and that wild yellow flower
whose name i don’t know
how the light of the moon
is water-like
as i move through it, then,
i am nightswimming


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