red things
250511 | The roseyard, the wet berry, the blackbird in wind.
Cold, bright dawn. The loon and the sun come up off the lake, arise together. The garden hose set to a timer. A— pens a philosophical paper on filial duty. P— shuffles home, seems more stooped of late. Mother and daughter share a table in food court, read together, hold open the books just purchased; briefly she glances at her mother.
Think: could be better. Resolve: will be better, tomorrow. Find: am.
Miss the sakura. New flavour of bathroom spray: ‘whipped warm sugar.’ Metallic clink of a softball bat. Defend the tulips. Talk of genius. Meet the three brothers at the station. T— holds flowers wrapped in brown paper. Ask, “For mom?” The boys nod. Throughout the city, flowers wrapped in paper, in sun. Limp magnolia petals brown on sidewalks, in sun.
Audio: Korpala Park, May 2024
Put down The Marrow Thieves. Start The Color Purple. Almond brittle bars. The Tragedy of Julius Caesar. Cross the city. A father and three kids navigate the bike lane, shout in German beneath the noise of passing trucks. Žižek on ideology. On George Floyd: J—: “The man of the hour.” Sisters on scooters: “You have to hurry. You’re the slow poke!”
At the coffeeshop, the man rests elbows on the table, smells sour. He holds a five-dollar bill, offers it to his neighbour, but before the other can reach for it, snatches it away. He snaps a lighter, holds the flame to the window. The ground under foot, the purplish-red of the blackberry and the tulip, all sacred. Kapleau Roshi: “You yourself are time - your body, your mind, the objects around you. Plunge into the river of time and swim.” Even the sour man: sacred.
Cold, clear dusk. Above the roofs, another moon.
Mother moon.
Be careful out there. Don’t fall for the stories.
~ d
Well described, well written, well done