Beneath dull skies, scraps of cloud glide, silenced by the falling rain. Gulls, grey as daylight, swing low and skim brown waves. Drizzle spits and blows, and even cherry blossom fades into the monochrome. Where did it go the hope in the spring, the surge, hot and green from every new shoot? Already the wind tears the blossom and drops it in the mud of the last rain.
The same gestures repeated over and over, blossoming, dying, waiting for the winter, the same dread of the envelope on the mat, the monotony of not having. The only change is age. Each day adds a few more grams of weight; sky, clouds hang lower, feet drag. I can make silence in my head and let it crowd with memories, but no dreams flow into tomorrow, leaving bright streamers in their wake for me to follow, and memories fade, their time done.
The salt smell of iodine fills the air, heavy and rich and I can feel the ocean rolling beyond the river’s curve. Clouds break, little by little. Perhaps we will see the sun.
Wind in cold branches,
ephemeral blossom falls,
sky full of fragments.