That's Me, On The Right
He died tonight in the middle of a hot, sticky day as wild asters burst open and coral tea roses bloomed. Our town police dog is now part of the organic things that grow and fade, and grow again. Rest, my friend.
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Dawn's blush lit the sky -- scarlet stained as sunrise came.
Honeysuckle bloomed and the air smelled like a cotton candy summer day.
From tight buttons to reds and deep blues flung wide, my flowers bloomed.
Without waiting for Monday's heat to fade the lightning came.
It flared. Thunder boomed. I thought of something beautiful and brief. A daylily. Open then closed, with fleeting orange in between. Life and death in the flower beds.
I have been silent inside. I keep my hands busy and I keep the dogs busy while I wait. For a word, a whisper, a broken phrase just to get things turning.
Sometimes I start with borrowed thoughts, then purge them for my own.
Sometimes words tumble out from nowhere.
I toss unfinished vodka and tonic from the glass. Maybe it's the ice hitting the sink at closing time. Maybe it's sudden rain on the window. A sight or sound or nothing at all might prompt a thought -- maybe a song about rumpled love letters or a blood red convertible pulling into the pizza place -- its open sign shimmers pink pink pink.
A friend went out on his boat today. He laughs at me because I don't own a bathing suit. He wonders if I even float.
Like a stone, I said.
I showed him a photo of smoothed rocks on Lake Zoar's ragged shore.
I said, that's me, on the right.
