This tree told me they had young dreams of being a cloud but it took many many years to become one.
Stayed up too late nursing a hunch about out a slightly different future. Followed by two heart-racing phone calls, some strange number wanting 4am FaceTime. Who is this? I texted back but should have said Fuck off. The cats wanted to be acknowledged at 5 (and 6 and 7). They can fuck off too. Today, two people I met once are getting married by my friend in his front yard and I don’t have to go. The breeze coming in the bedroom window soothes my headache. My hunch looks less realistic in this light, but it’s still there.
In summary: Black Lives Matter got painted on the empty windows of the place that used to do copy machine repairs when it closed up for good after all the office workers had to work from home, teaching their kids about pandemics and protests in between Zoom calls with their teams, their mothers, and their high-risk friends who haven’t left the house (or received their unemployment benefits) for 15 weeks.
The old vines are never cleared away and form a tangled thorny hoard. The new flowers don’t mind, growing loose and bright around them.
I’m in the “Fireworks are bullshit” camp. I’m in the “Of course some celebrate our country by causing trauma to others. How American!” camp. I’m in the “Look at this flower exploding into bloom” camp. Hooray. Hooray.
The buzz of vague danger and high stakes runs through all the hard materials- steel, concrete, granite, skulls. And for a moment they wish to be strong, like a wave, like a sigh.
The wind feels good on my warm neck. There are baby ducks in the reservoir. These are also parts of this apocalypse.
While the slopes grow soft with sweetpea, the world demands some spike and web.
The next day, your spikes have been plucked and crushed to a paste. The sticky web of you rubbed clean. You shake your smooth belly at the world and invite the unlucky to rub it.
It could be worse is as patriotic as I get. Instead, I celebrate the possibility of better and the union of flower and bee.
The cat came out of his fireworks bunker and laid on my chest. His body twitches into mine with each small noise.
The report came in of a massage client who tested positive a day after her appointment because of a social outing the client had a few days before. The therapist tested positive a week later. Masks were worn. It didn’t matter. I’m supposed to start work in two days.
The sun came out and singed the hosta leaves yet the hard days of summer have yet to arrive.
While you wait in the shadows for your big reveal and for a few more sips of sun, your waiting becomes useful to others. The spiders and anxious women thank you.
Safety is everywhere and nowhere at once. The shiftiest of things. Welcome to the new way.
We’re not gardeners really. There’s more witnessing than tending. We point out the flowers that become creatures before they unfold into food. We guess at mystery leaves pushing out of the earth. We wish them luck in their becoming.
Tracy Burkholder 
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