The winter, it was the winter all the usual things happened, I have forgotten what would travel from the north as a series seen from above or from below, and the followers, the flowers, I tore them up the next summer, or rather before or immediately after and thought no more about it. But then the summer, plans to sign a contract, the summer came back for what it was: a small sprinkling of rue and a yellow fantasy and we were invited. It appeared tall and swaying and deaf to appeals, and the winter following, this was the arrangement— first one and then into another not yet there, many years of this refrain and all the productions within it coming to mean more of an intimacy between musical instruments and still lifes you lose yourself in again and probably have now, what objects have known in their one dark winter afternoon. They are still visited by everything else and together complete the effect, a distance which the next day took form. That winter stopped and probably on account of summer a spring, spring with a sturdy fringe and a local reputation, it’s outside, in various rooms and looks at everything, a few lilacs in awkward positions, but they were alright, it was summer, very strong, passing organizations, which never finished anything and ended in making all this, cold coals of wildflowers, little wars at the centers, they go on for years burning near the front and from below.
Copyright © Geoffrey G. O'Brien. Used with permission of the author.