It seems you’ve stopped napping this spring. And as things change quickly, your counterclockwise gusts bend us more than we’d like. You shake the limbs of budding trees, wear trenches through the mulberries, toss basketballs in the yard. We send others to retrieve them, to sweep up your mess. You always flow away from pressure. Remember when you wrenched the door off the playset, and we made art out of it. Sometimes, you settle yourself in the orange and deep blue of sundown, and I read out loud. It feels like I’m rocking you to sleep. Breathe softly. You never change what you are, you just react to what you feel around you. Past midnight, you’ll wake and rattle the floorboards again.
Matthew Miller teaches social studies, swings tennis rackets, and writes poetry – all hoping to create a home. He lives beside a dilapidating apple orchard in Indiana, and tries to shape the dead trees into playhouses for his four boys. His poetry has been published in The Flying Island, PAN-O-PLY and Your Daily Poem.