This ant scurries down wooden garden slats into dirt worlds like he’s crawling into bed. Here, his whole world circles him like piles of spiraling towers. It becomes him as he chases himself in his work, inward, then out.

When I’m old, I’ll stand as tall as that tree that waves at me in the wind, its branches deep forest brown, as brown as the insides of the Earth.

When I’m old, I’ll stand tall of the edges of this planet like two leaves that meet, then branch out like butterflies.

Rain and white petal parts still sit in pools all over our yard. It’s almost summer, and wind carries the warm smell of rain.

The crows nearby still shout, waiting.

Even though it’s June, Christmas lights still crawl up our twisting backyard tree. They light our faces in the almost-darkness of this almost-summer evening. We dim our voices and bring our chairs in closer. It’s the pink petals though falling in our teacups and hair that keep us out here, waiting.

It’s dark out now and you rearrange things—pillows, books, glass of water by the bed. The dim lamplight hovers by you as you read, scratch your head, cover your own familiar body landscape on bare chest with bare searching hands. Inside the book and under covers, you fold in. Let yourself fall into the story like pillows on soft, dewy ground.

Evening comes down like a ceiling. Water drops stick to falling leaves as they hit a neighbour’s car, pedestrians hold hands as they scurry home. The mountain’s snow caps aren’t too far to still see as we pedal quickly through these streets, not quite dark, not yet raining.

There’s an orange sun that sits on clouds above the house across the street

from where I’m sitting. Evening’s air’s so still

trees’ leaves shudder at its touch.

My neighbour hurries home with her hands full.

The almost-darkness chases her.

It rains and we all go inside. The monks across our yard move from room to room, turn lights on and turn lights off. One puts his coat on though, lights up the garden as he leaves out the back with the dog.

This is how it all comes alive.

My next-door neighbour is practicing piano. Green plastic lawn chairs have been perfectly placed, tilted, in to sit against the picnic table.

This is how we keep the rain out.

In this warm, dry loft, tucked away, we climb under covers with flashlights and secrets. The rain on our roof is like keys locking, like curtains sealing this moment off from others. You whisper—all it takes for me to hold on, to wait with you, tell you everything, shout in bed, naked.

The moment comes and passes like wind’s pause on the backs of some wild orange flower. Some sunny summer afternoon, you were lying on your backs in a forest of grass. You thought the rest of the world was still with you.

You felt the change that came when the news did.

The moment a person dies, movement does stop.

Moments like slides split down the middle.

Winter laundry hangs, stiff; I lie in bed at midnight and watch icicles form. My covers slip around ankles, warm against my bare legs. I know that everyone’s asleep. This house moves like creaking floors with our breath, breathes out into the cool night air as we do. The silence is so still it’s almost unbearable.

The hotel room held our sweat. Two sisters tried to share covers that lay between us, twisting around our six-year-old bodies like tangled melting wax. With each dream, we sweat more, felt more the realness of this sheet being pulled from both ends, felt more its corners as they touched our legs, slipping.

Trees’ leaves stop to move for moments as wind pauses through our school playground. It’s recess, and about to rain: we hide behind portables, bypass getting picked for the safety of unspeaking and accepting dirt. Pine cones speak silently as they fall gently beside us, create new wind from flight.

Years later, we’ll go camping. We’ll say it’s the nature that brings us back each year.

The rain smells like June. Recess doors prop open to let in air filled with dodge balls that suspend in flight, kids who yell as they run, orange peels and candy wrappers that fall at their feet. The smells densify and suspend, waiting. Each one is heavy with its own weight of time, each one disperses and condenses as it moves, permanent.