I hate it when our conversation grows as cold as old stone soup
and all we can think to say to each other is did you get the stamps to pay the bills
and listen to how the fire grows low
so low we can hear the June bugs knock against our window
and i suppose it wouldn’t be of any use to look for garlic scapes in our kitchen garden…would it?
and i suppose not… but really darling it’s not as though the window breaks
or the world is coming to an end now
is it?
we can always listen to fireflies whistle for the stars