I will wear it like an apron

The hills sit tightly knit,

inaccessible the way the past is. How blue

it all becomes, the further

we get. The dial turns. My young tomatoes—

fruited, stalked, dead in less than a year.

Distance fades all shape

into flatness. The pots thirst

for a new soil. The dial turns. The sun

does not go through me

as I have certainly wished. Instead

I absorb it. The sky turns.

Instead I cast a continuous shadow

(wild fennel grows

unintentionally through the path).

I am going to somehow

pick it up, somehow

wear it.

Sophie Rae-Jordan is a writer who likes the way that poetry can make her feel both big and small at the same time. Her work can be found in Mayhem Literary Journal, Symposia Magazine, Moist Poetry Journal, Poetry New Zealand and more. You can find her at www.sophieraejordan.com.