numbering the streaks on the tulip

[radfrac_archive_full]

I should have recorded each flower as it bloomed. I haven't written about one.

The day a few weeks ago when the cherry trees loosed their grip and the drifts of pink covered the grass and filled the gutters (and annointed those abandoned monitors we saw at the race.) The chestnut candles waning all along Cook Street. The fields of camus, matted overgrown grass hazed with purple, and the waxy buds, like clusters of violet crayons. In among them, the buttercups, shining like gold records. Or running by a field that looks empty at first, until I realize it's full of white easter lilies, heads hanging down, dreaming into the earth.

Spring seems like a sad time, for the first time this year; everything blooms so beautifully, but for such a short time. I mean to write about it, photograph it, draw it, love it. And then it's gone.

{rf}

Comments

well if you're going to get all happy and lowercase about it

[radiantfracture]

Spring is like a perhaps hand
(which comes carefully
out of Nowhere)arranging
a window,into which people look(while
people stare
arranging and changing places
carefully there a strange
thing and a known thing here)and

changing everything carefully

spring is like a perhaps
Hand in a window
(carefully to
and fro moving New and
Old things,while
people stare carefully
moving a perhaps
fraction of a flower here placing
an inch of air there)and

without breaking anything.

or

[radiantfracture]

I smell the smell
Of the orange-flowers
That wait till May to bloom.
And I picture a friend's sleeve,
A friend I knew so well.

(Anonymous poems from Kokinshu)