Indian summer.
I’m breathing deeply.
My soul is continuously taking my body outside,
the indoors aren’t expansive enough to hold me.
The final wave of wildflowers is blooming
on the slopes above the house. This is the last gasp of summer.
Robert is coming home tonight.
His fire season is finished. The next six cold months are ours.
Little does he know, he’s my eternal summer.
The flowers will quit here,
but something inside of me blooms steadily
when I’m in his presence — something bursts into color in my heart, always, just for the knowing of him.
Have a good weekend, you.
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