There is no morning dew past the early dawn, past the springtime’s green hemline, flashing its bare and barren thighs, marble white from the thaw.
And when the throbbing heat in june, july gives out like an engine you can’t turn over, then august brings itself to a boil, left to simmer.
And it starts again, the dance of decay, the waltzing rot. I watch with my head resting on the cool glass, blooming frost. I watch the same dew don its wool coat and winter gloves.
I watch, eager, till the moon drops, and cracks, and slowly scabs. I watch it heal as I rest, though it leaves me paralyzed. I watch like the family dog, howling at the slow spin cycle, left feeling a lonely mesmerized. It all comes back again. It all comes back, again. Everything leaves so it can come home with the dew, with the dawn, evergreen, so that it may always remember how to begin again.
Kelly Erin Gray is a writer and English PhD candidate at Boston College. Her writing has appeared in The River, and she can be found online @kelly_erin_.
