I’ve missed our beneath-the-surface trysts.
You and your buoyant love, deep caress, soothing sparkle.
You are my quiet cove, splashing symphony, ever-gliding channel.
With every stroke, you steal me away from the din of demands.
Your flow–lapping up and racing by with no questions–surrounds me.
With each passing whoosh, you lead me by the hand and whisper.
“Float with me now in these reassuring moments.
This is where peace, promise, and repetition reside.”
February is the shortest sister, who reveals the tallest truths. She is the forsaken, lovelorn link between what was and what may be.
She may look like less, but she will never be more. She prefers to expose what hides in summer’s shadows than to impress with leafy grandeur.
She won’t be bothered with producing figs to entice or dazzle. Those juicy baubles that dangle in gusty monsoons will come soon enough.
She stands and waits outside your door to tell it to you straight: “I am the bare bridge from January to March. I keep the world spinning forward.”
On the first morning of autumn, September’s long-forgotten-and-seldom-seen sister dropped in from beyond the buttes.
Unreliable rain interrupted an eight o’clock swim. She had ghosted us all summer. Promised her return. Teased us with phantom forecasts.
She stayed for ten minutes. Long enough to soothe freckled shoulders, heal parched souls, and cast a creosote cocktail over the palms.
Her intoxicating personality was the change we needed to silence the sameness. To swim and dance again under the clouds of our desert dreams.
Mark Johnson Stories 