silly last poetry cafe justwrite

Enough of this, and these, and those, too. What I really need is a pouch full of seeds because all I've been planting are my feet which only grow into footprints while my palms are aching for pansies and there are diamonds in the sky that I used to think were stars before they weren't, and my wishes weren't either, weren't etched on the backs of pennies or used to blow out birthday candles. Evenings are my favorite time for thinking, but they're usually gone before I start, Scrabble letters stacked on the floor and the foot of my bed, sheetless and cold because it's summer now, when you press your face against tile because you can, the air too hot and wet to breathe, but August is over just before you've drowned so the worst is piled around you, saying, "I'm the worst," and making all sorts of scary faces, like the one I see just before I go to sleep then is gone before I wake up, like everything heavy from the day slips out of my eyelids while they're closed and hikes skulkingly into the woods, staring at the ground because there are feathers sometimes or arrowheads or rocks that you think might be arrowheads because they're sharp enough that it was probably on purpose, and then Karam is here! and bird noise sounds like songs, and I remember warm blueberries and green gauge plums from when I was younger, brown betty as the sun set, sand still in our pockets from last week. There are six moons in the sky, and four of them have noticed me, nodding like they'd be tipping their hats if they had them, my fingers chasing shadows on the picnic table, a lightning bug searching our living room, and empty bowls upside down, drying on the kitchen counter.