when there are storms.

the july babies born of

broken trees and heavy milky snow.

when there are storms.

the july babies born of steadfast crustfree august momentum.

you thought we’d forget about the mission we’re on.

you thought we’d be distracted by your temporary disasters and mouthfuls of expiring

foilage. you thought we’d be distracted by your natural pausing.

when there are storms. the july babies born will sing songs

orchestral exclamations certain to struggle free

from the strangles, mother.

tonight, I don’t believe in here or there,

snow falling or rising, safe or boiled water.

I only believe in you.