A river must have dried up where the stones pave a getaway from the wild ways the city works. A river must have been once, where today my wild inhibitions regarding ways to explore affections lie. //caption// On my doorstep. I. I found a stray half freckled yellow marigold on my doorstep. I have always liked marigolds, sometimes my love for yellow flowers being a little too irrational. I wonder where half the sun I'd keep in my pocket, always handy, is now. Now that I've traded the grunting heat for the freckled, dried and crumbling thin petal strips of the warm winter bloom. II. A river must have dried up where the stones pave a getaway from the wild ways the city works. A river must have been once, where today my wild inhibitions regarding ways to explore affections lie. A river so blue, it would put a dawn in spring to shame. I wonder how many of the ones battling crippling loneliness go out with caskets in hand to gather honey molten sun-rays at noon in December. III. The cuckoo often mistakes early winter or mid autumn for spring. It shrieks in a fever frenzy, doesn't mind the smaller cloud clots separating from the larger ones and spreading out like blotched paint across an otherwise plain blue sky in the season of fall. It doesn't wait for the tall grasses with white flowers to wither.
