Hearing is different when
coolness fills the
transporting canals of the ears.
I rolled the rubbish bin to the curb,
its wheels sounding different before the
impending Autumn swallows us up.
No longer are we
melting to the ground.
I hear the trashmen coming.
Were you here now,
we’d not be frolicking, no
there’d be boiling,
you’d prepare black tea
quietly,
but for the occasional
spoon clinking against
fine bone china.
Bread goes in
while I’m getting out the butter.
Hot toast springs up, and
we sip over
the edge of each other;
eyes over lips
between euphoria
and pensiveness.
Softening butter,
sweet chutney,
we sip petals off
daisies.
Should we go for a walk?
Should we pour more tea?
No one asks.
We just sit, and sip,
amidst
assembling this puzzle
delicately, fragrantly,
we do this.
