No longer

can I write here,

beneath the shaded

pergola,

blooming with the hum

of bees and the scent

of Virgin’s Bower

as that flowering vine

casts off its petals

like late summer

snow.

No.

You misunderstand.

It is, now, no less

lovely, no less

pleasant;

but the task of fitting

thoughts to words

and words together

has been usurped.

Wait…

Again,

and yet again –

interruption.

The bowl of peanuts

swiftly empties.

Restraint.

Patience.

Calm.

Fine words, indeed;

but ill-fitted to

a chipmunk’s mouth

and never ceasing

needs.

— C.Birde, 9/20