It has been months since I could walk this far. At noon the fencerow thick with bittersweet nightshade flashes with summer sun. There are no c1ouds, no fleeing deer, no swirls of breeze, nothing I remember from the last time I was here. Now I lean my cane against a post, lying back where the long sterns c1imb and scramble over everything that rests
in their way. I love to see these blue stars. Their five points bend back to reveal a blunt golden cone nestled in the heart of leaf where in this light long shadows run like tears. The wide yellow berries starting to run toward red are the exact color of grief.