Perhaps it is noon when the shadow
of all things attaches to its creator, holds still
for a second or two, then shifts into night
once more. Perhaps you sleep under a tree,
the scents of unnamed flowers carrying you
back toward a woman with a watering can
whose dark eyes do not yet tell of her hunger
Perhaps she sings a soft refrain, its color
the ripest of lemons, while slight breezes twirl a windsock
over your forehead like a priest absolving sins.
—PMS: poemmemoirstory, 2005