I remember in the winter, once, a day just like the others, a morning cold that wrapped the walnut tree with halted dew drops waiting for the sun to free them. The sky was like the others’, too, heavy pearl and indistinct, and in the east, almost intangibly, a thinning bank of sallowed white expanded arch-like to betray the lost horizon. Silence made a home that day in sweeps between the falling snow, and echoes of our laughter slipped away unheard like ghosts.
Our footprints from that morning, by the afternoon, had left again, requited hints of winter’s quickness to encase the days in ones to come. And overhead, the lathered clouds, they quilted opaque blankets so to bleed a little evening into daytime. I remember it was easy and was free.
The words won’t come as quickly now. But then they did. They came in flushed with laughs on threads of chimney smoke to speak for Mondays free from school. Monday, now, is flush with rain–with window panes that need a wash from water streaks, whose finger-printed insides read like shifty paraphrases of a Sunday to forget. So let them slip away like run-off weeks and emptied days. Let the time be what I thought, and let the winters compass me in simple things, for things are hard enough without the rain today.
A Monday for the thought of rythms tapping subtle hearbeats in a puddle made where dryrot cracks the window sill. A Monday like the last one, and the one before it, splitting up the weeks, and in between them just an echo ringing humid in the sighs of weeping trees.
And maybe it’s that Monday speaks to something new I’m running from, sitting at my window here to traipse those thin reflections through the tenuous burlesque of drier days to cope. A Monday whose acidic tears grow lush without my purview all the greenest hints today.