blooming

Spring is unfolding ever so softly, a subtle simmer peaking out from budding branches and dusty asphalt. It’s a lovely thing to observe creation and the tiny deaths that growth entails. What trees wished its wood a windowsill future, holding it all up to gaze upon or gaze out. As the sun sifts through, the shadowed stages are seen clearly and the little lights that lift up to delve back down are reworked again and again. Trying to make ripples, hoping the stamps will outlast the season. That the paint will resist the coming showers. And as I wonder how long sheared skin can stay, or how thick lead can run, the perfect hope of permanence brings me back to the little lady who will never be bugged again and all the passings of today that trickle on by

october moths

in headlights