Love.

Puddles

A grey afternoon with the spitting
intermittent
snow flakes dusting across the
driveway.
I sat in my never changing
waiting.
The children were crying “stark!”
while grimy wet smeared across
the backs of clumsy little hands
and the ducks were heading in
looping circle to the north to
looping circle to the west and
to the north east again, again.
We traced them with our
fingers
on the charcoal frosted
metal;
it always pulls skin in a million
different
directions and we held onto the
ounces
that were strung across the
yard.
The children were crying “mercy!”
while our ears filled up with the
still empty cold of a silent sky
and the words slowly fell out of
their mouths , one by one onto
the snow.

on wednesdays

scottiehughes:

They have a certain way of slipping out of reach, of slipping away.