it is pushing midnight,
and I am sitting at the picnic table
in the yard behind our home
wisps of white cloud scud above.
the moon higher now – earlier
it hovered over the delta,
light rippling from it:
a yellow road rippling down
from the edge of the Atlantic,
following the Merrimac,
across the chop,
wavery highway, a rougte towards the harbor.
the stars are echoes of past light.
cold air around me,
hair blowing.
thoughts blown by other winds,
pushed by other hands.
I am alone, behind this house.
I am quiet under this canopy I cannot fathom.
Feels sad
Just a moment in time…
Hope all is well during the zombie apocalypse.
It’s as surrealist can be expected. I’ve been doing a lot of writing, just not publishing that much here. I may need to rectify that balance. How are you surviving the end times?
Please publish it. I like to keep up with reading them. I’m okay. Dying to travel but all plans now understandably cancelled. I’m feeling so appreciative of experience since lack of much. .