18. the malwattes’ garden

it rains.
I play
connect-the-dots
with my mosquito bites,
tracing Little Dippers
up my ankles. a kaleidoscope
sky above me shifts
its glass until we agree
and settle on
somewhere around malachite.
I hear the rain gulp, I close my eyes.

some things do not have stories to be told
in folded sentence.
some things simply are,
like stones that hold riverbeds in place without a thank you.

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