The pollen has been making my eyes droop.
Sleepily I tend to sections of it
in clumps.
Chickadees and woodpeckers
and yellow-bellied warblers
are indifferent and happy.
You say, “You can’t tell me what to do,”
as I sign for the check,
“But I’d actually like it if you did.”
On that dreary Monday,
we stack carnations
on top of one another
white and red and red and white.
I hold your hand tight
to try to will you to leave.
“There’s nothing that could’ve been done,”
they say.
But we don’t believe them.
I talk to my mom
every morning before dawn
I weep to her
and she allows silence
to be comforting.
“Do you want to walk?
There’s a hike in Japan
on the Peloton tread.
It looks pretty and serene.”
I send a screenshot,
autumn leaves and the name
Hida-Takayama.
“I will go slow,” I say,
to make her more likely
to join me
without fear
of the competition
I usually carry.
But I find myself
wanting to run
through the rural streets.
Later I learn
the region is famous
for Sarubobo dolls—
red, faceless charms
that represent
protection.
I wish for one.
“Thanks for motivating me to move,”
she says.
I tell her
I love you.
Thoughts?