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i have been to this place before
in the lively green heat of june,
when the tiny marsh buzzed with cicadas:
drowning out what stung so freshly,
but is now an old sleepy scab.

today the world is desaturated.
grey has swallowed the atmosphere
and is biting my bones,
leaving tiny teeth marks
beneath my pale winter skin.

the steady squeak of a broken gate,
leading to private tennis courts
that looked like a pond in the sunshine;
the intermittent car alarm,
and the wind, like drums
set sunday's sleepy rhythm.

today, as every day,
i miss you and
the soft pink lips i kissed
goodnight.

i was a little girl once,
laughing at the year's first robin
falling through the green grass

but the robins never left home this year
so no one is rejoicing.

the wave of this hill threatens to toss me overboard
into the silvery sunlight,
the sky's dull knife;
so i get up, i go back
to where i came from.