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MICHAEL ROBINS TELLING THE STORY OF HOW WE MET In lieu of bedtime books, the children want descriptions of their mother’s life. They want to carry the baby squirrels home, give them milk while I’m learning my wildflowers, dodging bees on the ferning asparagus beneath the trees that look like oak or maybe walnut, the early morning clouds, the south by southeast winds that twice blow out the candle I’ve lit for you. A coolness feeling coastal, as though the ghosts could scuttle to the ocean where I know there’s only trash scattered in the parking lot, where either way the seagulls do not think or care. The black-eyed Susans will last another week & so I return to the second floor of that bookstore when I said hello & you said hello. I’ll share my coffee & Sunday paper, maybe eggs or a scone with Daisy leashed between our feet & long before that neighborhood changed for good, when there was nothing else planned that afternoon & we believed, without a doubt, each hour could go on like this forever. |