August
is hard. The beak of the bird. Ice in window edges. Stones under the cold
river. Waking up and getting up. Shell of our house. Switches in half-light. It’s
always like this, we tend to forget. Hard roads. Hard eyes. Every brick of this
work of nature, our city, hard for a reason. Prospects, plans, news, hard is in
there. Hard glasses to read by. Hard zippers against the cold. Temperate is the
warm blood of fellow creatures, the possum and kangaroo. The cat curls amidst its
warm blanket. Like us. The sun is hard. Clouds are deceptively light.
No comments:
Post a Comment