the most important thing to note,
is that none of us are moving.

at this point the vines have wrapped like arms around our ankles, their hands holding us and asking us to stay.

at this point we feel it's what they are owed.

a while ago a friend of my oldest sister told me that when we plant gardens we trust that we will see the fruit come forth from them.

so here we plant the garden with rotted seed and hope for love, even if the deer nip at the flowers, even if we can't contain it.

we rarely ever move from here, do we? the sun has always been ours, the stoplights and the pot holes too, the crows in the fall and the robins in the summer. we have all we have.

the kids play baseball in the circle, throw strikes and floaters and curves and there's nothing like taking a line drive to the wrist, there's nothing like rounding the bases, nothing like the sound of the hit echoing through the hollow where the world is quiet.

now the sun is setting earlier than usual tonight on this silent world, the men are packing up their lawn chairs, the moths hold court by the lamp posts. we drag the red sky down ourselves, a blanket of sorts, an omen if you will.

who's to say that this isn't beautiful?

when the night is open wide, her arms tight around us, we will chase the fireflies like always and feel the grass dewy under our bodies. soon it will be fall, and like always we will adjust. we always know what we have to do, there's no other place than here.