Clover quakes on a summer day by dead black pavement. All afternoon I’ve watched my shoes, following the furious advance of feet though another day in a long line of days squeezed into a suitcase called past with room enough for eternity.
This doesn’t end well. Yet, the quivering head of a clover’s slightest shake catapults me skyward through the ceiling of my self, spiraling up and out, till every particle quakes with meaning seen only from afar. Not one point of heartache matters. I’m taking my suitcase and leaving.