We’re on two different sides of a keyhole, Babushka.
I’m trying to see you one last time

and you can’t quite make out my shape.
In this heat, I can’t blame you.

In this heat, the flowers melt into each other.
The grass is one big green breath

we step on together, hand in hand,
so close I can hear you mutter to yourself

but not close enough to see you. 
The keyhole, Babushka, it’s narrowing.

The days are reaching for you. 
When the door opens, what will we have?

Bio: Daniel Blokh