Image Credit: Pexels- Jess Loiterton
Days unravel slowly, as a June haze to wildflower warmth. Her flip-flops clog abandoned to stories written in the sand, her summer house hanging on by splinters by the outstretched bog. First touched by summer’s heat. Then, the ebb and flow of the waves hugged at her bare feet. It wasn’t the first of her heatwave dreams.
Next came the crickets, the June bugs, the cicadas, a flight at dusk. The moon’s suspension painted the drooping nettles in sunsets and peaches. Shattered, scattered poetry lined her pages; ducked on a sunchair by the harbor ridges. It was then the first of many, if not for an hour, for her days to unravel slowly.
Sunlight spilled like honey on her shoulders, coating her hair like the tales of lost golden treasure. “Live for yourself,” she was told. And so, she did. In the quiet cove of waterlilies and dreams long-sprung, her broken verses were written on the crescent leaves. The ebb and flow of the waves hugged at her bare feet, her summer house aching with the wind and salt at its bearings. July would come soon enough.
This was written by our contributing writer, Claire Kroening.
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