B sent me home with avocados from a tree in her yard. I learned there is a butterfly called a blue morphos, that my oldest has known this. For years. My children visited the fault-land of their birth. Everywhere, there are protests in the streets. The richest are in office, and The Great Gatsby is 100 years old. Shoes take the shape of a gait, a belt’s notch my limit. The myth that otters keep a well-chosen rock in a pocket, for years. For life. Like a question, the chosen rock is the most convenient. All circles have a midpoint, also cities, but circles are equal in the same way questions are not. I’d been asking if I could trust him. Not if he was trustworthy. Blades of a jonquil have greened at my front steps, the avocados ripen on the counter. Name one thing that heals in a week. Or a day.

 

       Brown house wren returns

       effervescent song and twigs

       new mother, old nest.