Picture us then: Our years are shining and edgy. We are
dancing under summer, skipping lightly over winter. The
greening and drying and yellowing and nothing of leaves
exist only in nature, not in us; the calendar is long and
smells of fresh ink.
Picture us then: Our years are heavy sponges laden with
water. We squeeze out rain on hot dusty days, then count
the minutes until equinox. In our worn hourglass bodies,
tired organs mark time by falling into dust. The calendar
Picture us now.