justwrite 27 february

well so it was like this like a kiss of rain and a mist of spain there are plane janes and there are no mary buckles I am tucking in my toes and supposing that the growth rate will exceed the puddles will endeavor to bubble up overward overhaving overheard another day coming we are running in place I am escaping the chase scene and stepping into the august the sky the October November we are telling each other to remember the seasons and the reasons although none of them are Christmas and all of them are white bright like a night light coming through the attitude let’s hide under the table and pick the shoes we like we can invite anyone we want to haunt the underfood party and the conversation’s better and the weather’s always fine there is no wine to dine with no climb to mount we are doubting our shoe sizes but rising to every occasion now it is the season of my vocation and I am halfway through I am wondering too many answers into questions and this is what happens when I teach my own lessons and this is what happens when I trap my own tail in a bag and drag it along the bus route tooting my own horn and calling my own phone in the end zone we are listening to the scores called in and the medals counted but I have no idea where to go from there I care and I share excitement but in that time will the world end and will we pretend that nothing ever happened like that nothing ever petted that cat in the three o’clock shade and the blanket spread across the yellow the knit pattern scattered like sunbeams in and out of view and you pull up the windows and fling out your suppositions and wonder who will listen and the answers enchant you and you can’t view the inside the same way again