Months’ve passed. The peanut shells
we tossed into the unglazed bowl
you hand-threw in pottery class
wear their edges like frayed ends
of a pair of your cut denim shorts.
You stalled my blood waving
a finger through those threads.
This near-spring’d felt disconnected
from every other spring before it,
with its blousey cloud cover,
its crows flying over in droves —
until this morning,
when the dew took me
back to that shop aisle,
those bins of pinched plastic bulbs.
You bought a bundle of wire also.
At home, you cut an arm’s length
of that tough, greenish vein, then
strung each with facsimiled raindrops.
photo credit: Allef Vinicius via Unsplash