Can you tell me of a time when winter didn’t know me, when rain was speachless and a warmer connotation lifted through the intermittent clouds?
There must have been a daytime. There must have been an hour when all these sunken trees were green and maybe flowers wrote the poetry that sunshine spoke before it left the sky marooned and limp beneath a mask of building fog.
Has the sky always been so indistinct? Has there ever been a reference point to tell you where to go? I’m just so claustrophobic in this vast expanse of ashen weather, and I’m afraid that if it finally lifts whatever verse the darkness writes will be too dense for me to read.
So tell me please, you must have seen an afternoon. And even if the rain stumbled still from troubled clouds there must have been a light behind them to slake the arid grass when it first grew, at least a momentary remnant of the clarity that fed the petals of these suffered hyacinths weeping over unlit and unreflective puddles. And it can’t be that you haven’t heard a poem told by morning, when the moon still loitered near the edge of sunlight fused with darker skies before being forced to yield.
Even if you have to make the words up as you go, if the imagery is fiction and the narration unreliable and the tenses lack agreement, even then I’d like to hear that something lighter came before the destitution, some memoir to give reason to this abandoned epologue.
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