Paris, 20e arrondissement
And maybe this is a round trip,
lets see:
today, one year since landing...
wow. one year.
the space that seemed to be unroling before me into infinity now seems to have folded into a pouch tucked into the seams that frame my present.
That is what you get for focusing on the details. I like it.
details are important. Like cheese and bread for a long journey. tomatoes keep too. things I learned on our expeditions. like my breath is still riding out the journey from the furthest southwestern tip of the e. continent, i know because i feel like i am still floating into the expanse of wide open water. Have you ever dipped your toe into the ATLANTIC? yes. I remember when.
details.
like mint springing up in the space next to the laundry line, and in the front near the stunted vine and the base of the pine tree, unexpected. the hosta's white flower slipping out of a green envelope...we're waiting. The Fall garden, dispite the missing sunflowerhead. sleeping under the three pine trees and waking in the much anticipated deweyness of the cottage-in-the-city morning. meals. sitting in a busstation and remembering the feeling of traveling feet. of going. of coming home. getting comfortable on cement streaked with fossilised black-gum-comets in the midafternoon sun going somewhere
getting somewhere on good converstation and a stop at the BIG apple (though not THE. soon though) only to be able to cradel and be cradled by the laughs and hands and eyes of people called home.
long distance phone calls that can go on till we get tired. weaving home on electrical lines. weaving forward. mail reminding me I am still missing from people; still stuck on a wall in the town where I would soon be gathering walnuts, chestnuts...apples...smelling winter off the distant white capped mountains wondering fretting about the today I am sitting in, here.
getting further
and closer an
accordian song
of life.
anguish celebration deaths small and eternal extatic reunions and tearful leavings holding on to the green green life that keeps pulsing and releshing these new roots that are pushing in to the cracks in this side walk where I trade air for life
this time in the city.
purple bike
no name.yet.
lets see:
today, one year since landing...
wow. one year.
the space that seemed to be unroling before me into infinity now seems to have folded into a pouch tucked into the seams that frame my present.
That is what you get for focusing on the details. I like it.
details are important. Like cheese and bread for a long journey. tomatoes keep too. things I learned on our expeditions. like my breath is still riding out the journey from the furthest southwestern tip of the e. continent, i know because i feel like i am still floating into the expanse of wide open water. Have you ever dipped your toe into the ATLANTIC? yes. I remember when.
details.
like mint springing up in the space next to the laundry line, and in the front near the stunted vine and the base of the pine tree, unexpected. the hosta's white flower slipping out of a green envelope...we're waiting. The Fall garden, dispite the missing sunflowerhead. sleeping under the three pine trees and waking in the much anticipated deweyness of the cottage-in-the-city morning. meals. sitting in a busstation and remembering the feeling of traveling feet. of going. of coming home. getting comfortable on cement streaked with fossilised black-gum-comets in the midafternoon sun going somewhere
getting somewhere on good converstation and a stop at the BIG apple (though not THE. soon though) only to be able to cradel and be cradled by the laughs and hands and eyes of people called home.
long distance phone calls that can go on till we get tired. weaving home on electrical lines. weaving forward. mail reminding me I am still missing from people; still stuck on a wall in the town where I would soon be gathering walnuts, chestnuts...apples...smelling winter off the distant white capped mountains wondering fretting about the today I am sitting in, here.
getting further
and closer an
accordian song
of life.
anguish celebration deaths small and eternal extatic reunions and tearful leavings holding on to the green green life that keeps pulsing and releshing these new roots that are pushing in to the cracks in this side walk where I trade air for life
this time in the city.
purple bike
no name.yet.
posted by blueolive at 11:28 p.m.
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