the humidity has died down
meaning my door now closes quietly
draped in grey cotton pajamas
this is my midnight life
as i listen to the murmur of august crickets
it rained today
a light mizzling mist that didn’t drench
but dampened spirits and soles
when i was a little girl
summers meant sunbaked grass
and cicadian cacophony
now my feet are blistered and bruised
the bottle of white pills
rests next to my elbow
the prescription is weak and i wonder
sometimes why i bother taking them
i am not usually this cruel
but unsought surprises require retaliation
if i lived in the world of fairytales
i would be the grown-up alice
still chasing the white rabbit
with child-like glee but wiser
what’s heroic about a heroine
who can’t survive sans hero?
not all who wander are lost
and neither have i been recently
stymied, yes, but striving
wandering alone but not all alone
the ephemeral mists of surreality
are sometimes safer than reality
i find my mental adventures exhausting
the field of green flowers looks so pleasant …
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