We slow down enough to grow a patch of moss
on our legs where the shade lives longest.
Do not look away. We are growing
through the most alarming of days.
And all I can often think about
is the cake you baked that night
on the fire we lit from sticks
stolen from the dead tree.
As the sun comes drooling
over everything, we sing.
The moon, a pink scoop of icecream
in the golden sky.

Read the rest of Overland 243

If you enjoyed this piece, buy the issue

Or subscribe and receive
four brilliant issues for a year