It Happens Again

The same birdcall, half past seven
This time, fog curls around my ankles like a chilled cat
as I step onto the pavement to greet the sound.
The cable-knit of my sleeves wrap me in my own embrace
my shins aching still with sleep

and it happens again.

The same balloon in the sky, just after dawn,
the air pink and yawning, the heat unpresent.
The speck inside the balloon opens and closes the mouth of the envelope
making muted banshee sounds of hot air.
The speck of thrush flies below the basket
optical illusion
thrush supporting a miniature hot air balloon

and it happens again.

The swing creaks under my weight,
groaning like a day laborer with aching shins,
my coffee dribbles over the lip of my cup
my flicking tongue missing a drop that singes my skin
and bleeds into my knee, wrapped underneath.
I’m ready to open a new book
inhale the birdsong, invoke the balloonist to wave at me

and it happens again.

You are the home I slept in when ill,
the thrush call coming through your open window
before you embraced me in your sweater to keep out the chill.

You are the earlybird, waking to show me the magical specks in the sky
the recreational hoppers who sail to Oz every morning
and exclaim how you have always wanted to fly.

You are my swing companion, always spilling your coffee on your shirt
and telling me corny jokes as the day cracks its knuckles
and throws its beauty onto your face.

I open my book and inhale the wind,

and you happen again.

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2 thoughts on “It Happens Again

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