Grounding

The clover is heavy with dew,

it stings with a sudden, sharp cold.

I’m thinking of things I once knew,

of how we are all getting old.

I haven't called home in a year,

or six months, or maybe it’s more.

I’m standing in silence and fear

by the frame of the back kitchen door.

The mailbox is rusted and red,

its latch will not click in the slot.

I think of the words that she said,

the ones that I nearly forgot.

My toes disappear in the green,

the blades are as soft as a prayer.

I’m caught in the spaces between

the dirt and the morning-gray air.