by Amy-Catherine Welch pt 1. (in August)The rain came down softly on my skin the last time I saw her a metaphor All I ever wished for was a cabin in the woods for us to run away together so I've been looking up flights to Ireland looking at borders looking up masks and Hepa filters holding on to hope like a thread above me swaying Early mornings make me think of her you... what is second person third person anyways except a device and a way to remember. Is it a sin that I just want to abandon my acting career and grow vegetables? I miss theatre with every fiber of my being. Maybe I can put on a production of Hamlet, lying under tomatoes and cucumbers and I can feel the drama in the rain and shout these stories to neighbors and through screens I want to dance loudly here. pt 2. (in October)I sit in silence
vines grow in cracks around the bend Tiny gardens in a concrete jungle aching to be wild but confined by a fence built by man I want love and wind to sweep me away to live inside the scarecrows my neighbors put up to see the world through straw Will it wash away my fears?
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