The good day when the sun is out
and there aren’t any constraints pulling one down into a dark place. The day
when all the assignments are turned in, the flowers are in bloom and ones body
feels like it belongs to its owner in a pleasurable way. Feelings aren’t
particularly felt in any extreme way on days like this.
In autumn when the leaves are all
over and the apples are hanging on trees ripe waiting to be picked, eaten or
made into pie. Or strawberries sliced up
with sugar added sitting in its own red juice soaking and gelling and mingling
with red rhubarb until it is put in the oven and the smell takes over the
entire world until it comes out of the oven and becomes its lovers greatest gift
in the world. The flaky warm crust with the hot filling scooped into ones mouth
quickly before the temperature cools and it no longer resembles perfection.
Everything works together and it is easy.
Really easy.
Stepping outside when the snow is
falling for the first time in Winter. Clean, bright, welcome release from the
clouds to earth. Remembering the Snowy Day and the collaged snowflakes pink,
green and purple. Peter woke up and looked out his window and it covered
everything as far as he could see.
His little red snow suit.
He walked with his toes pointing
out, like this:
He walked with his toes pointing
in, like that:
The snowballs, snow angels,
mountain of snow with wisps of cotton swirling across the deep blue sky.
And home he goes.
His mom carefully removing his
socks. Her large, brown friendly body. His steaming
hot tub and bubbles.
The dark wet pocket where his saved
snowball lived a short life.
The days grow shorter and the cold
gets impossibly colder.
The moments collapse into spaces
with no warm breath. Stillness with no comfort. Stained bathrobes and tattered
slippers. Cold coffee.
Wanting to fall asleep early but
never quite dreaming.
Nothing feels quite right like it never
will again.
The roots are tangled and the
laundry is piled high.
No one wants to do it so it sits
there.
The cars are stained with mud and
the steps down into the subway are wet and slippery and there is a giant brown
mud puddle to tip-toe across before to reach the platform and maybe ones feet
will get wet, or maybe not.
On the platform are two musicians.
One plays the violin and the other a guitar.
Someone holds the closing doors
open.
One gets a seat and can read a book
and there are a few chapters left.
But she came back.
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