We Are The Pocketwatches

Lemons are growing where the bunnies have been

In the black hole corner of the yard where the dragons crept

Through the fence, then around the cypress trunk,

Then dug the pool – now slumbering beneath it, waiting for the days

Inscribed on the plaster to imprint themselves into the dirt.

There are treasures with ideograms rising sharp

From the undersurfaces, a bowl of moments thick as years

The dragons lick them, dream in flavors of language

While here, the clock spins down, skips seconds

Snags a string in the orchestra’s viola section, a sick twist of time

Dizzy on the tuning.

Sour and then salty and then there’s the oil, the polishing

Cleaning the days from her screens, dusting the seconds from their fingers

All of it falling into the sun, pouring into the root vats below—

Where the rabbits might have gone, quick as myth under the tongue

Once upon a platter, once upon a picnic basket, once upon

An afternoon, plastic tablecloths shredding around the tape

Wind from the shore falling exhausted upon the lowlands onto

Slumbering dragons underneath the buffet table

Constantly smoking the treasure, constantly devouring

Their cotton-tailed dreams.

Sharing with The Sunday Muse, who kindly provided the image...this probably should have made me think of the upcoming year...but 2020 is low-key terrifying me and I'd rather think about lemon trees and rabbits and swimming pools and whether or not it's too damp to go to the park (no, but I've left it till too late in the afternoon) and iced tea...because it's Texas and the cool front won't be here until tomorrow and if I can just hold all of this in my head (along with the adventure story I was brainstorming earlier) those dragons might stay sleeping. At least for a little while. 

-- Chrissa