yesterday

[susanstinson]

I was sitting in my love's greenhouse, reading Stardust by Neil Gaiman in the sun. The book was a gift. The piles of old snow had shrunk, and we could see ground in the back. She turned on the turtle fountain, and it spouted water into the tin tub with the goldfish that are wintering over from the pond. She was reading a seed catalogue. My mother called. Her mother called. The donkey brayed once, big. Last winter's slugs are coming back. The german shepherd drank from the fish tub, and walked on the drooping December swiss chard. I only visit this house, with its gardens and animals. It was both complicated and simple, but warm enough to take off my thick courdoroy shirt and read in a t-shirt in the sun.