Maybe the truth is as much in the autumn as it is in the spring. It can mean so much to say to the blades of grass: I know you are down beneath this weight of snow; and I believe you will make it through, to peek through cracks and see the sun.
Green trees might just be pretending until fall. Abandoning apples to gravity and going to sleep; we say this tree is not a tree until it is ripe with fruit; when the tree begins to fool us into our own belief in summer.
Of course, it becomes this truth: the autumn and the summer are true a tree may have no leaves and flower, the soil may be frozen and filled with fields of marigolds; the same tree, the same ground, while our lives are stuck in just a single season.
This winter, I am alone, and I cannot fake warmth. A thousand conversations recorded and transcribed prove my own transparency but I can destroy the record, tell you all it's been misplaced. Inside of me, a leaf descends and there is rustling in my gait, and I save these acorn proofs for when the sun stops looking, a squirrel in search of meaning in the biggest hollow trunk.
The truth is in the trembling of the leaf before it falls; so we look to the ground to see snow where grass should be, as if there should be anything else but now.
-e.
_______________________________________________ Five7Five mailing list [EMAIL PROTECTED] http://www.pairlist.net/mailman/listinfo/five7five
