The Summer: Doors creak as rug hangs alone on drying string up hill, of Creek. The Wind chimes tangled within willow strings, tap; shelter for bucket under tree holds tad poles and marbles and skipping dreams from dead leafs that fall and brighten piles of seashells made out of, concrete.
The Summer: Discarded silverware never washed reflecting yesterday from glass that has been bleeding since early June. Hear, whispers, hush, hear; the moon soul of Lake Michigan; reflections tap… tap…tap as you hold my hand and in-rain barefoot in-rain in-rain in-rain I walk sliding mud tracks alone like glass down hill you hold my hand I feel sand in toes alone alive in-rain, and I’m sleep walking and standing ankle-deep at night down hill, in creek.
Adventures In American Writing 