Overcast skies,
mourning doves crooning,
cars gliding slowly
across soaked asphalt.
Wisps of steam
rise from your teacup,
raindrops streak
down the half-open windows
of the screened-in porch —
pooling on the sills and
trickling from the gutters.
The world grinds to a halt,
just for this moment.
Breezes blow in
through the insect screens,
rustling branches
and carrying
wafts of petrichor
that connect you
to the world you swore
you’ve escaped from.
A few more minutes
out here
couldn’t hurt.
Hello old limestone sculpture,
Of an ancient, armored,
Sword-toting,
Roman soldier-
Meet acid rain.
Your chiseled face,
Buffed away,
Until the once completed visage,
Looks like modeling clay.
Slowly, but surely, we return to square one,
That marvelous, marble base,
Laid bare,
Then swiss-cheesed,
By sizzle drizzle.
Behold the disappearing monument,
Matter cannot be created,
Nor destroyed,
But that’s neither here nor there,
Until we put real effort toward conservation,
Of the curated.
Depressions,
Tend to accrue,
Collections,
And internalize them,
Creating literal,
Littoral gray areas.
Still still,
In the sunlight-
It’s dappled surface,
Slightly evaporated.
It has no mind,
To receive,
What it holds,
But it still becomes,
A pastiche.
Upon inspection,
The surface of the murk,
Projects lurid reflections,
Where not enshrouded,
By leaves,
Or speckled,
By pebbles.
​​
The periwinkle patina on a past-it’s-prime pretty penny that smells of pungent pecuniary petrichor,
The swing-set that squeaks and squeals due to shear-force in the sanguine summer schoolyard,
The oscillating fan that is ostensibly an orbiting oasis in the warm weather,
The trills and triads the trickle plays when traipsing through its trapeze act to tap on a rock face.
These are minutiae, minute moments made of monuments to each momentous minute.
The File Pile 