Nightshade on the hill.
In my life.
A stipe of dripping glaze on pottery.
A reaching pine that pretends to bow down.
A handful of tomatoes born of weaker dirt.
A crying seabird above roadway tire hums.
The sun crowns above the wealthy homes on the hill.
A necklace of eggs surrounds my neck like anchors of potentiality.
To sit idly by and watch the goodly frame extinguish itself.
Or to hatch some eggs?
Always here, pressing the selfsame face.