Chattanooga Cottages

Driving down Mimosa Lane, houses hang in the trees, a moody creek laying below them. On a porch of primary colors, leaves trickle down fallen bark. Red paint splatters underneath my eyelids with each blink, fences are stitched with sprinkles, wagon wheels and light, too. Twirl his curls, a ballerina in a music box. Wood chips off the piano keys, there’s a guest book with no room for us. Outside, the binding of a cottage builds a perfect backdrop.

Hitting our heads, falling down, hurricane hail. Coming down, the blanket masking the piano blows away. Dandelions turn into daises from the rain. My handwriting, a lighting streak, spelling out only our names.

Tell the cottage how we shook the sky and slipped off the page. How the sun rose up, leaving everything thriving, radiantly.

And after all that, we became a story you tell like filtering sunlight, dreaming through a polaroid snapshot. Your heartbeat sewn, stuck mid-flutter. A butterfly flying in a flute jar. Like you found it in the attic covered in a thin, whisper of dust. Poetry 57