I am privy to our picnic basket, where the brie and apple Charlotte live. I want to have
a sandwich in another life with you. Near streams the cuckoo swells to song.
A sonnet's worth of linking to some petulance to swat. The kiln is full of undone flings.
You will administer my depth half without thought. A color might conform to fuel,
and soothing herbs might prompt a reminiscence. Weather may as well have wintered
here. The whimsy once imagined capsizes rigid fault lines. Whose arrangement do
these flowers portend? A live nest bristles with conspicuous thin leaves. Unhinged
endorphins cozy up to patterns to be made. I fill a feast with quiet forecasts. As though
any of the story could be formulated shared.
Stem cell, Thebes, some thumb tacks, overall a carryall
Sheila E. Murphy