Eternity

Perhaps late in a day swept away by the memory of summer meadows in bloom, a leaf as large as two hands held together gently taps my name against the pink and orange glass of the kitchen window.

Maybe as I breathe in the sweet scent of buttered plum and ripe peach backyard lit by golden slivers of fading sun neatly penciled across the table, living itself becomes a fragile surface to be touched and be touched by: each perception a skin. And though my mind cannot easily carry away all the hours my life has to give, I still act as though I expect it all to come back tomorrow.