Remove the Vine, The Honeysuckle, and All

Ryan Emmert

I waste no time in gathering the rain — not watching it fall,

never tasting its bitterness, nor bearing its weight.

Days like this, being called to sit on my front porch

and sigh with the trees — barefoot air in the birth of June,

and still no pink in the azaleas. How can I pray for different things?

My clothes are somewhat wrinkled, my skin doused in cold sweat;

leave me wrung out on the clothesline, another sorry day —

as the rain digs up every secret in the clay of our backyard.

There are splinters in our feet from sliding across the old

wood porch wearing only socks, and no shoes.

We could spend all night picking the splinters from our soles,

or we could just lay beside one another and let the night cool
and wash away the pain; to save tomorrow for this quiet illness.