(a shadeling for Aisha)
The day-long rain abates and the backyard grass
appears much greener. I imagine the lawnmower
in its place in the garage mutter to itself – a sub voce
hope that the deeper green doesn’t mean greater length.
We share a bottle of wine in the livingroom. You read
a book and I try to worry words into a poem. The wine
leaves me too mellow for truths and I concentrate
on the length in its Spanish finish.
I leave you reading and return to my friend laptop,
play solitaire, consider the look of various costumes
of words. I procrastinate, them make a quick decision
and begin stitching together a length of events.