may

sacks of stones
collection of feathers
how he used to trace each line
remembering a time
when skin tickled to touch

we think in seasons and
speak in storms.
there is a day in august
i can't wait to pass.
just a number. a square. a box on a grid.
a date someone selected and took away
retracted. nevermind.
i give it too much meaning
i do that a lot

stacks of stacks of paper
quiet words once.
scratched to scribbles
erase and replace.
shoved further and further beneath the bed.
where all things go forgotten.