The Acer’s tiny fluttering hands are prematurely red-tinged,
waving above the jerky staccato line of ants dancing along the rim of
Its terracotta pot.
What is it that feels strange?
Is it the dryness – the heat without humidity?
There is an odd coolness in the house despite the weather.
Outside the sun still has its bake and slap of heat,
but something is off kilter.
There is an abstraction.
A feeling of waitingness.
It’s not just my garden holding its breath,
desperate for a drink of rain.
It feels as if the world teeters on a perpetual cusp,
And we are waiting.
For lives to start and wars to end.
The next minute, the next week,
As if life is a universal wait.
Dotted here and there with moments.
Transient as the pattern of black smudges moving on the pot.