These Hazy Days

It Wasn't You

It wasn't you.

It was the wind—maybe—

The harrowing scree of the rocks, waiting—

Maybe—or the paintings of green upon the walls,

Or the path, its footprints, the shoots pressed lank

Into the ground.

It wasn't you.

It was the way the sky looked

On that day. Cherry.

It was the warp I stepped on in the floorboards

When I got out of bed.

It was the sound of sprinklers in the neighbors' yard

And the way the ants strode along the sidewalk

With cracker crumbs held high above their heads.

It was the way my mouth felt even after

I brushed my teeth.

It was the unopened buds on the ornamental plum

And the drone of planes in the air.

It was sunscreen, it was progress.

It wasn't you.

It was the winding road and the sheer

Drop of the bluff, the way the cliff grass

Moved in the breeze.

It was the smell of rain through my window,

It was the trace of the sprinkler water

On my skin, from my midday neighborhood walk

Through the sculpted lawns, and the way I had to

Skirt around the tangled bodies of hoses

Carelessly thrown onto the pavement.

It was the grains of discomfort that strained

Throughout my teeth

When I saw chalk drawings of flowers on the road

And the furls of pink dust whipped up

When biking children rode over them.

It was the fading stripping on the street

And magnolia odors, bridges concrete in the sun,

And the feeling of ragged salt against my palms.

It wasn't you. Know this.