52 writings

xii.

I wondered would the shorn green stubble be softer under my bare feet had it not been stunted by those whirling strings

strings that could have been soft too, but whirled swiftly with no time for softness. 

outside the window I could hear the high-low buzz of the weedwacker, removing all the round, ambiguous edges, turning them into something clear and straight:

edges that could be known and understood. 

I wish they'd left the edges soft like the stubble that grew into down on her legs in the winter. 

and what's so red as strawberries in the summertime.