Sharp colors of cloth run together from bodies sliding in and out. Days no longer offer enough hours. My legs are on fire with age. The dormant sky waits like a Pincherry seed holding fertile soil. Here, on the table, food breaks into bread.
Hunger lies still.
In my hand a fossiled stone holds day and night, hot and cold in its belly. We searched the beach for connections of stone and town. Childhood hands lift one rock mirroring lake and home. Daylight voices travel lightly and enter walls. Memories rattle the windows.