The Carelessness Of A Summer Holiday

Memory played Southbound

As I drove north on I-75.

Dreaming of nothing in particular.

Almost seventy degrees
On a twenty-third of February.
The picture window of my
Apartment wide open and
The sheer white curtain plays
Along lightly to the musings
Of the outdoors.

Propped up on the couch.
And writing things in open
Secret like the sun shining
Behind the overcast world outside.

This feeling is like a morning fog.
Slowly but quickly evaporating
Into a dream I cannot quite remember.
And in Februarys yet to come I
Will wonder when this uncommon
Respite will again appear
But until then, in this ephemerality,
It is the carelessness of a
Summer holiday as a creed.


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