We don’t really have names for what this will become.
Pruned
Lazing about under a banner
Of growing humidity
In the deepest corner of counter space.
Dryness on the back of our throats.
Heat from a floor
To the ceiling
Under layers of blankets.
This thing’s metabolism
Not what it once was.
Not the strapping presentation
Of its prime.
Shivers
Bones vibrating with force.
Watchfully:
We open windows
To let breeze
Stir the old, yellowed air
Around it.
Circulation as a tonic.
Outside
Green has begun to return
Born of clay and rainfall.
The sun arrives
To the sound of trumpets
Playing through mutes
Under water.
We are not quite sure
If the sun’s procession is a full-throated
Endorsement
Or
Casual introduction.
Meanwhile:
The thing we do not have a name for
Coughs with fervor.
Spittle at the edge of its chapped lips.
We offer it water.
It is not too proud to accept.
In the rising heat, the blankets are no longer necessary
Still the thing shakes.
Air around it
a quiet
Jet stream
Fresher by the day.
Still it withers.
Watches the outdoors with something like longing in it’s ruined eyes, riddled with cataracts.
Perhaps it is closer to the edge of the counter.
Perhaps
Some of the old zest is back?
A surer posture?
A stir in the step?
A momentary reprieve.
Soon, the shaking, collapsed frame comes further into focus.
We come downstairs
The counter is empty.
Rushing outside, we step under the flourishing Bush that butts up against our home.
Here it is.
No longer shaking
The beginnings of dandelions coming out of its form.
No longer
But also starting
The process
Of becoming
Again.
