Shrink

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.