The birds are calling for shelter, and I’m whimpering for summer. These days of wet stuff, and dark lights, ruin all of my plans. As the meadows turn soggy, and the tree branches sag, I am burdened by walls. Stuck inside, away from the picnics, away from the sun’s blessing.
If July doesn’t dry our bags of bones, I might just slap a goat.
hugs and smooches