Forsythia

Here were those tiny sprays, miraculous, supermundane clusters beckoning me, embracing me to believe, to find imaginable the existence of warmth, of sympathy, at which point you texted that you were only leaving now to meet me, and I replied my phone was cold and so was I and I would meet you, with felicity, as was appropriate, you could find me, and I would reveal myself to you, in the exhibit, where I dreamed, lost in thought, about my own winter count, I hadn’t had coffee, that inky cuppa joe, since the fall, an expulsion, perhaps from grace, which can mean so many things, and as I stood looking at, gazing at, examining the small figure with a tobacco pouch, and thought of you not smoking, you exposing, detecting, you revealing, proceeding at high speed, as I listened to the rattles, the chanting, the susurrus, the incantations I felt indeed enchanted, in a hallowed suspension of time, and then you were there and we were there together and in that square, that box, of my seasonal calendar, my daily accounting, we imagined ourselves loved, in love, as if the paint and skin and beads and feathers were sufficient for, or commensurate with, our pleasure, our comfort, our work, our cosmos.

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