by Christina Hile
Summer is almost over. We neglect to
mow the grass. We always said
things look better left to grow
a bit wild. The spiders spin
their white silks amongst
the lengthy blades of green. I see now
why you admire them, tiny creatures
with the ability to create their own worlds.
The tree you planted years ago
still stands, crooked and leaning toward
the sidewalk. Its gnarled limbs, the color
of damp sand, hang from its side like the arms
of a tired dancer. We were optimistic
life would find a way to thrive
despite our lack of interest in anything
other than each other's bodies.
The backyard is quiet now. No
rubber boot trails of footprints
trample through the grass and dirt
and onto freshly-mopped linoleum.
Making tea and walking
to the mailbox are ceremonies,
performed more slowly each year.
We always said
the world spins too fast.