Small moments evade me, too. My memory
drips details and I prefer to watch ants scurry
across my bare feet, continuing routes through
dirt onto tree trunk, carrying crumbles to some
unknown destination. The yard is abuzz today:
traffic hums through late morning and girls
chatter denim-shorted ponytails aloft. And I
wonder why I tell you all this—if you are even
there to receive these missives. My dress tore,
caught on bramble. The scrap traipsed in dirt
out behind the garden out away from the people.
Sun doesn’t dapple in those fields and clover spikes
purple the expanse. The lawn burnt from winter
salt and shadow recedes until further notice. I let
my thoughts carry me back inside, bringing me
biscuits honeyed and trinkets to drape from wrist.