2025

Regression or evolution or just whatever

Photo by Eugene Golovesov on Unsplash

I spent this year circling the block,
trying to hear the pin drop over my school-worn shuffling
and drunk
on the kind of freedom that blisters as much as it teases.

To no one’s surprise and to my great delight,
spring found me munching on fat cherry blossoms,
devouring what I tried not to hold too preciously.
Adorable, really, because I’ve never stood a chance
and don’t expect to start.

In summer I knocked back tavel-pink wine,
the sweetness of conjunction sending me flying while I heard glaciers crack
under my feet, time-wise water flowing underneath
and drenching me on the net-held trampoline. 

Then autumn brought crisp edges and new notes of bitterness—
how avant-garde, I thought.
Yellowing can be so good.
Like the pages of a beloved novel, discolored from so many rereads,
or from sunscreen on sensible, sticky hands by the water.
They’d produced what seemed like magic so far, 
so I let them feel around for the truth
(ultimately futile, but you know. Still good!)

Now I am by the sea, so none of that really matters. I didn’t tell much of the story.
Does anyone?

And tonight!
I feasted on grapefruit skies
no sugar required
while the waves lapped at my bogged-down eyes.
It’s not wrong to rhyme!

Tomorrow I’m going swimming.