Butterflies stretch their water colored wings upon a swooping string across a wall in the small bedroom. Shadows from the lamp cast long ovals and tulip silhouettes take flight.
Above
the crescent light fixture hanging many feet from vaulted ceilings, hacked
letters in red burst triumphant in a drab February palate. Cursive letters on
the tall windows are half-visible, though on the opposite side they are
complete.
My perspective
fills in these blind spots and creates craters of questions. Like the adding of a shady antagonist into a hungry plot, so is a mystery
written into daily life.
“fe”
are the last two letters.
Be
sides the “fe” the only letter
almost recognizable is a cursive
“C”
which could very well be a
“G” o
r
“O”
Window frames accent
half-concealed words
“cons ting”
“edpath”
“deewklim”
“ry”
“skoob”
“ehcn”
“yppah”
“sba s”
Daily life includes daily rhythms
for some people. Daily life includes daily reading for some people. Daily life
for some people includes mix-matched pajamas and squeezing a tube of toothpaste. Or holding
(and losing) some object or thought multiple times and pulling socks over toes. Or taking out the trash when it can’t be stuffed down anymore.
Daily life includes many words.
Particular
titles catch my attention like certain stones from a shoreline of jumbled
pebbles on the North Shore when I was young and kept a cardboard box on a
cluttered shelf in my closet, which I ceremoniously opened and closed for
this: the valued addition of a chosen rock.
Objects of value hold unique personal
attention like book titles and rocks and pretty butterfly wings beating away
February stillness.
“The Song Poet”
“Classic Book Jackets”
“Float”
“Prime of. . . (I can’t see)”
“Ancient Oceans of Central Kentucky”
“John”
A sign for
“Emerging Writers” twists my mind around the word “emerging”. The three letters
mer taking the majority of the focus
as I say the word, “emerging” which now looks like two words blended together.
“Emer” the beginning of one word and “ing” the end of another, with the lone
“g” lasso to join them.
Space is a quiet place. Miles and miles away on the moon, at least I imagine it would be quiet. Like silence, loudness is not only heard but felt and seen, too. Similar to a chandelier vibration that cues characters and the audience watching a film that the great room is about to collapse, liquid quivers in miniature rings surrounding the small glass as music breaks each measure.
Waves of
bass rise
drop drop
drop
around the cup
Composer
Giacomo Puccini wrote 3 Minuets for a String Quartet in A. Titles were so straight forward back then. No mystery necessary, here's what this will sound like: a Minuet in A. The direct title is stable and the song is grounded. I listen to Minuet No 1 in the day's early hours, hushed by the sound of the cream strings.
Floating
in delicate lightness, the butterflies are a likeness of rain drops in
the dawn and dew of spring.
Spring being composed one measure more each day,
as light closes and the room
sleeps
quiet wings woven on a string.
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