The stems
of last year’s four-o’-clocks
are bones in the flowerbeds.
Sturdy, but hollowed-out. Scoured
by time and rain. My brain shorts-out
a little
when I touch too many of them.
Something echoes; or hopefully does not
I keep at weeding, sweat-beading, neighbor
making polite conversation; until
drops weigh too heavy, falling inside lenses.
Lungs labour on liquid air. Hair clipped-up
tight, trapping salt, scalp itches.
‘Time to take a break’, said as much
to myself as anyone else. Time
to let things green at their own pace.
to leave the bones their own space.