By A.E. Bayne
It is the season of sticky watermelon juice
on the kitchen floor.
My sandals suck the linoleum on the trek to the sink.
This season is for random thoughts and altered memories,
when we compromise the reality of situations
in its humid physicality.
It is for sunlight pouring through a meandering gloom,
forcing its way toward the seared grass
where only weedy things thrive.
It is the season for losing keys and misplacing identities;
when insect rhythms match stereo sounds tone for tone,
and bore their way into my mind.
This season unnerves me
with its wasted hours not wasted on chores.
Too much time for thoughts of pulling weeds;
so I turn toward things to come and textures I can grasp.
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