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.

 

 

 


Patrick Faller

Photo credit: Allef Vinicius via Unsplash