6:30 am, Saturday, a Los Angeles suburb ... A wild wind that shakes the trees and knocks over the plants and yet, caresses my face. It Is almost warm. The trees singing as they dance, calling to me. No persons but for me, me and Henry.
The way the sky lights grey before the sun appears. The way Henry bounds through a yard of two foot clover taller than him. The way that last star- or is it a planet?- clings to the western sky.
And at home, all
And sad things, too. The litter, the uncared for empty pill bottles where once there was weed. The half empty bag of Cheetos. The notes from someone's 5th grade class, scrawled in careful lettering, a little girl with a crush. Thank god she didn't text.
A forlorn Christmas tree wrapped in plastic. One of the last of its kind at the end of January.
Yeah. I remember.
And childhood walks through the wood, and a deep winter peace and the quiet sleep of snow, and the way your ears catch a phrase and you chase from whence it came because you don't know if it's a song or a poem or a love letter.
This is a love letter.
But now the time runs scantily thin and we are each the slave of our moment in time- dreaming of boredom, drinking in clouds.
I promise I'll-