April 25th, 2010

caillebotte_man at his window


The poppies thrive, but so do the foxtails. April's air is lilac-scented, and carries drifting strands of black widow silk. Birds sing all day and mosquitoes buzz when evening comes. Transitions from waking to sleep and sleep to waking are unwanted intrusions, spoiling temporary perfection. All the contrast and transience of spring makes it impossible to retain either melancholy or delight.

I imagine myself a bird about to smack myself silly against a window where the clearest path appeared to invite me. I picture myself at the last minute realizing my mistake, too late. This is the conceit by which my imagination tries to warn me, but I know the caution will be wasted. That window gets me every time. Oh, it just did.

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