Postcard toward the season’s end

Sometimes when someone speaks, another takes up the sentence.

It is the same, though not so obvious, when one is reading: the words on the page might be a cipher, or they might slip into a fissure and wake something under the skin.

And yet I know that I have also said: I do not speak for anyone else but myself.

Hands grown old, brushing against verbena and mint for even a sliver of passing fragrance. Late spring chill like a tongue on the skin.

There is a Japanese dessert made of kanten and azuki bean paste: it is meant to evoke winter’s snow and ice melting, the earth becoming soft and sweet again.

Like beaten gold, scales flashing in the resinous waters.

The years might polish anguish to such a sheen.

What I will want to take with me: rich swirl and eddy, the sky’s impartial crease.

Everything’s mostly borrowed, but give me something to tell me it was not all for naught.

 

In response to small stone (90).

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