On Any Day That’s Not Quite Winter
As if she has forgotten that
we are still February, the air is warm.
Steamy rain streams out of clouds
into puddles. Adventurous carp flip
their fins, adding yet more ripples.
The air is shy as if
she’s scared of carrying fish
from their pools, into the
arching birch trees. Waves of breezes waltz
lightly with the river’s current. Delicate
whistles set the beat.
All of the water’s inhabitants
quiet to listen. The air is humming
as if she has an idea
on the tip of her tongue.
La Vie en Lavande
Buoyant honey bees float on the stalks of lavender, more bees than I’d ever seen, yet quiet as an open-casket funeral. Somehow people fear the dead more when they can see their puffed and painted faces and bees more when they’re buzzing. Rows of gravestones a uniform dove gray fill the spaces between the beds of arching lavender and their bees. Jägermeister-esque deer carved cleanly into the stones stare out at me. Nearby, yellow rose blossoms flutter delicately in the breeze, but their thorny branches deter any thoughts of plucking one to tuck behind an ear. They have been manicured to perfectly frame the headstones, flowers lovingly grown. Bees bounce from grave to grave to hive, yet as if they can tell the dead are hidden beneath six feet of dirt, they buzz a happy song.