over a lost sense of being outdoors, combined with fear of being found out is the Juliet balcony, a slight protrusion towards Step 1: Admit powerlessness.
Forecasters say heavy rains, pushing east-southeast, could knock it out on Monday morning, and what’s worse, lift my seedlings from their pots, and plant them into the alley.
I want to get back into circulation, free-flowing words that pop out of nowhere, like the bright pink head of that purple finch there, with forward-facing toes gripped around a wild knot of power.
I admit I lack the same command of iambic feet, but my deeply sincere tone, and good humor alone could help others get through the day; namely, the zinnias, otherwise to be washed beyond the reach of roots by May.
So, I switch the latch lock off, and rise to join them at the balustrade, where I recite a mantra: …to accept the things I cannot change… and there’s something slightly Shakespearean about it now.