Wednesday and the fog comes
Slow over hills
Like fires waiting
Denver is burning
The days are longer, hotter
Drier and smaller
in context
Like apricots dehydrating on the porch
Sun comes out, wanders
Around with the wind, smells itself,
Retreats
These things are slipping past
Just like the days do
One after two after three
Until the whole
Is the sum of its parts
Packed up in boxes
Ready to be put on the shelf
Back behind the winter wear,
Baby clothes, postcards
And photographs
squashed against the silhoutte
of the one you once were.
6/12/2002