the meadow

I wake to hail on my window and laundry to hang. the tasks stack by my pillow. I keep track with my phone, resisting the urge to feed it to the fishes or the tram tracks. patterns emerge in the empty space between the work that should be kept for rest. never short of plants to tend to or roles to play. I show up when I’m called and do my best to care despite the headlines. anything at all to stunt the risk of stillness.

my parents visit me in the city that used to be theirs. we cross the bridge and pay to see the pretty paintings flown from Boston. I think about the world in which my taxes fund our fancy art exchange and bombs to drop on schools. the same world I pay for, that watches children burn and goes to work and sleep each day. I think about the way we are although I’m safer to not think at all. so many people taking pictures. so little left unseen.

my favourite is a painting of another space between. early afternoon sun washing autumn leave shadows through the meadow. golds and greens to long for in the dark. I’d take your hand and show you if it opened and I could.