The weeping willow’s boughs are swept in the heavy winds,
and it’s daylight, no clouds, the wind rustling the grass-blades,
picturesque, and yet, and yet.
It was a day like this, years and years ago,
I took my first kiss to a park in Kansas,
and on some old picnic blanket we gloried in the warmth of each other,
in the smell of nature and us and photosynthesized memories,
little nothings,
little nothings.
A day like this, I watched her hair whip in her face,
her hand gently brushing it back behind ear as she glowed in sunlight,
and though I didn’t say it yet, I knew,
it had grown in me like a child to term,
though it would be delivered without pain or aid.
It was a day like this, years and years ago,
when I felt the sweat of her and smelled her perfume,
open bottles on her nail polish stained mirror lain in the corner of the room,
strewn with laundry, a day just like the day I left.
And here I would lend meaning,
if there was any to lend,
but my mind is simply scattered with the wind.
