a succulent sunday

a succulent sunday
a succulent sunday


the thunderclouds are building today
the madrone trees dropping their
crackling leaves
so that it feels like fall and not summer
rain drops wake my dog
his speckled paws outstretched
he looks up, looks at me, briefly
lays his head back upon the boards.

wind scatters the canopy
falling needles, leaves, droplets
i can hear a tractor but it is sunday,
there is no appeal for me,
and anyways, my aspirations lean more
towards the ambitions of the border collie
than those of the one who wears the carhartts.

wild raspberries,
a green branch that arcs
over the bathtub –
what caused it’s peak, it’s descent back to the earth?
why not climb upwards and always more up?

the madrone is slick and red
with bark that peels from ash to green.
and i am in love, here on this blue earth.

i am in love with a man who holds me like a precious thing.
and kind words, and kind touch, our currency.
i am in love with this afternoon, humid air and nervous birds,
time to write, to draw a little sketch of succulents in their pot.

the tractor strains.
julius flicks his paw. an ant maybe. or leaf falling.
the madrone sends me one too
a gift, yellow with a splatter of blood still left in it’s veins.

now he is running in his sleep
after storm clouds. after sheep.
after fish in the river who glint and dart and nibble,
always out of reach.

i take his cue
and curl up in bed
to sleep and dream
of my love, who comes to me as a deer
who went climbing in the mountains
and returns to these hills at night,
unafraid to lie down in the dry leaves.

– maisie

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