It’s been raining. All day. Yesterday. Days.
No one is at the gardens. In them.
I spray the lock.
I spray the handle.
I wonder: where will it wash to?
All the Lysol. All the alcohol.
The bleach and anti-
“Into the streams,” comes the answer.
From where? From whom?
A crown of onions, for which I was sent, unearthed.
A cascade of sky water rivulets with.each.thumb.press.
Adding fingers in their chill to the list of aches I feel from the world.
As I return home to the warmth awaiting, kindled long ago, preciously tended with moments stolen and savored as we exhale on.