February to August (a scrap)

February to August (a scrap)

 

The silence opened up an abundance of
opportunities. To spend the afternoon with a book
seemed like the closest thing to a best friend. To spend
the day with a best friend seemed intentionally out of reach.

The seas are unchanging, but the seasons turn steadily away
from hands reaching out for another golden sip of sunshine.
Not every day is a success story. Some are simply times of
waiting for the moon to rise.

He opened a playlist of bands from the 1960s and it moved his
writing forward in lurches and screeches. Lyrics crept in
and he pasted them slyly into his unfinished poem. No one
could blame him for his mini stolen phrases.

He looked out the window where neighbors watched ICE
kidnap the family across the street. That was mid-February
and nothing was colder than the way they dragged their
unwarranted catch into the cold and out of the blue.
It stopped him for a moment, this August afternoon in
Minneapolis. He wondered what he would do, and what
he would have done. He pointed his castaway moments toward
another stage of life and wondered
if the silence was
large enough to take captive every aging
beat of his heart.