by Abigail Rudibaugh

I find myself desperate
for the green and blue
temporary backdrop.
The older I get the longer
I want things to last—
like the smell of sunscreen
mixed with citronella
and the time it take
to untangle the hose.
Simple pleasures
measuring all that is glad.
Every thing feels more
temporary, the older I get
like winter, sure to leave
its mark—
sure to leave me
staring upward a bit
longer each summer.