Ours are mostly brown, dry.
Pink stretched clouds overhead,
Washed air, washed sidewalks,
Sharp gritty steps behind me.
A season of waiting, lying low
Begins again: repeat, repeat, repeat.
Stay behind or leave behind,
Your choice. Pick what’s left over.
On my nightstand, a blue-capped plastic bottle
The cross worn off, holy water and superstition.
Blessing for your journey, for my journey
To dream under warm covers in a cold room.