Come out

to the woodpile. The air is sweet and the clay is cold. Let her sleep while you stare at the apple tree and decide which limbs to prune. Plum tree too.

The day is cold but over quick enough.

There’s enough to hear despite the ringing in your ears: a scratching pen, a passing car, the clicking of a working house, a sigh, coffee beans grinding.

The stretching of a cat.

The air is sweet so come outside for a little while and let the young one sleep.

One response to “Come out

  1. k

    i don’t know why “come out to the woodpile” makes me think of crime.