The frogs chant—
empty, not empty,
never empty—
I’m left alone
in this beach house
that remembers the weather
better than I do.
Yes, I locked the doors.
Yes, I closed the blinds.
Yes, I whispered,
don’t let her find me.
The trees will fall
and fall
and fall
into her mouth.
Roots will forget to hold.
I believe her.
At the end of summer,
I believe her.
Now I wait—
for wind, for rain—
for the sound
of her name—
Bearing through the fence
to where my yellow flowers
still bloom.
