stalking calendar myths,
may to december--
the night sky spills like
a horseshoe losing its luck,
leaving a trail of candescent garbage
spread across the bowing wheat;
enough to follow,
just enough to find
until the words come like they were supposed to
the first time
as summer flips the last few rays of sun
like a butter-gold coin,
to decide each day whether to make the moment
last
until what came of late winter
is woven back
into the shirt that clings to bone too much (more)
every year
and my wayside wonder bites her thumb
before holding it to the sky,
courting the indecision
we threw away,
neglected in the fumble to make lips mean more
than spitting poetry into the breeze.
--
Word prompts: cotton, horseshoe, predator, kingdom
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