pm poetry

Clanging
blue jay calls
ring throughout
our neighbourhood.

We watch heat lightning
ignite the cotton candy clouds
that soften
the horizon.

It was a year
of little memory,
and nothing much
to sink our teeth into.

But that morning with you—
mother and daughter,
strolling through
July’s angsty brew—
I knew I would not
soon forget.

Our balky gray dog
tugging her frayed lead,
a herd of goats scratching
their musky bellies
against a fenceline,
and the two of us talking
of somedays and
sometime soon.

It seems that “soon”
has arrived.

To me, that year
will always be
a July walk
with you.