middle

It's the middle of June and I'm sitting in the middle of the couch,
straddling the seam of two cushions. The sun’s not quite here
but something of its light has siphoned through the clouds, a touch
of warmth hitting the house, and I know that, though the signs aren’t clear,
summer is sidling into my bones, too, my hair, my skin - something in me
preparing to fly, free itself of the usual restraint. Still, the heart resists,
something in her yearning for what was. It is hard to replace history
with a future yet unnamed. And so, astride a present tense the body rests,
equipoised between stories. This morning, birdsong woke me, a refrain
only the soloist knew. She finished one verse, and started over again.

~maya stein