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