The most perfect time of day, I've discovered
is in the unclouded bluesky midwest
evening at 7:57 pm
after the heat of the holiday fireworks weekend
has faded from humid and roasting
and reckless to midwestern summertime just hot
enough

and one day since I'd branded my footprint
upon a nostalgic heart
who'd a night before sought
me to spoon
in spite of said heat

I say this so Michael
(one among "Our People"
there being no "We" now
has made me "His People"
there being his "She"
I become one
of "Their People"
and entirely I find this to approach satisfaction)
might comment to Rachel
"He might find dried frogs
crushed in his driveway, and
hide them in Ball jars in closets in case"
She'd wrinkle her face and start to protest
as My People, my Michael, continues
"But still he sees frogs in little curled leaves
Autumn-yellow on sidewalks, and leaves
those alone, for discovery's sake"

This moment, while walking, from bookhouse
past geese (blackheaded slicers of stillness' reflection)
with the willow shade subtle
with lagoon surface still
the truth of his words is a leaf
at my feet which I pass without stamping
because it's cooler, this perfect blue
sky time of day time
of year time of life

So my Ball jar holds no nostalgic heart
dried on my driveway
for me to show Rachel, I've left
it alone

And if hearts are like leaves are like frogs
on a sidewalk

The bluesky July kind
of breeze will soon lift
like a goose from the stillness,
from the sidewalk, that heart
that I stepped on, unspooned

like a curled yellow leaf
like a flattened, dry frog.

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