We could point our attention anywhere – summer leaning
into its most ambitious month, the evenings an eruption of fireflies.
A hilltop climb in a nearby town opens into a view that could double
for Tuscany, and the ice cream stand on the way back home could elicit a brief, dreamy
wonder – two teens at the helm, their elbows maneuvering through tubs of caramel swirl.
And yet, despite the signs pointing toward abundance, we keep listing toward any proof
of fallowness, like jilted lovers raking their wounds to build a deeper scar,
no matter that loss has already tenderized their skin. We ravage the fields
of their unfolding fruit, picking everything before its time, out of fear there won’t ever
be enough, while in the shade of a neglected oak, you’ve never seen so many acorns.

Posted by kind permission of the poet.