Nothing is ever easy here, except, maybe sometimes,
it is. I am in the kitchen, the garden, the bedroom, the sink,
appearing everywhere then faltering, like a bird call. Long afternoons
stretch out on rugs. Wood is laid on a small hearth,
icing sugar sweeps the floor with fondant tendrils. It is impossible
to believe that everything here,
everything in sight,
was made for this moment. Men are power washing cars,
teenagers trace lines of their former selves in playgrounds.
Laughter is ripe for picking. Flowers grow oblivious
to the noise that they won’t be green forever. Likewise,
this time is precious. This micro meaning, this blue sky. I am shown
a magnolia tree, rosy-cheeked leaves blushing as they curl over
to perfume the gravel. The smell is its own music,
much like a friendly wind chime. I don’t arrive at these sounds
easily; sometimes, I completely give way. There’s always an overheard
conversation, always the elusive bass boom of car speakers. Not a bad thing.
These secrets have always been sleeping, just
so I can go on, take my time,
& then & then & then
OLIVIA BURGESS is a 17 year old word chef raised and residing near London, UK. When she's not composing poetry, usually based on nature, her internal monologues, or her muse, she's having a frolic or staring for extended periods of time at the moon. She has been published in over 20 micro press avenues, and she hopes you take care of yourself today.