Bread

Oh how you tumble and fall. How the humid south whispers to you of wrap around porches and simpler lives, you dive head first into a lifestyle you can never absorb into your skin and it wears at your long-nursed ambition. Your father calls from a basement in the homeland, sharing images of a life you stored for future use, but that the future quickly bypassed. You cannot let it go, but you have no space to keep it. Your history bleeds out into recycling bins and second hand stores, and you are powerless to save it. Your present seems a week plant onto which to grasp: no roots, no solid branches onto which to hang your swing, no fresh sprigs when spring reappears on which to plant your hope. You are without a story.

The sun shines bright on this end of the Vernal Equinox, but the wind is cold, still.

You fear it is fresh air blowing through your tumbleweed shell, and nothing more.