Rounded with a Sleep

200

 

A bridge half-swallowed by fog seems the stuff of disturbed dreams.  

But it seems equally otherworldly to happen in a city upon fields of grapefruit-sized lavender flowers, or fairy dwellings–or to see Suessian scarlet roping spilling from around a tree, a misty reflected shoreline, and layered clouds bubble and bruise before folding themselves into lambs and lions while children listen to their bedtime stories.   

My life may be short on revels, but even in daylight hours it can hold the dream world’s gloriously non-linear tumult, discord, and mystery.

   

Homage

084

so much depends
upon

a pink and yellow
bloom

curled by fall
wind

above the vivid
sneaker.

So goes an homage to William Carlos Williams.

I need a break from the heavy kind of writing.  Today’s prompt asked us to tip our hats to someone else’s style, so I decided to describe my photograph through favorite writers’ voices.

Perhaps a sampling in the style of my beloved Jose Saramago?

We see the farmers’ market from a distance and think, Ah, the flowers, for they peek out from buckets and dot the hill with startling color as deep and bright as the leaves which are swirling to the ground, and yet the girl in sneakers steps past them, without noticing, and asks the shopkeeper, How much for a gourd.  The gourds are merely decorative, they are not for sale, but what of these pastel flowers, so rare and beautiful in this season.  Wait, do you hear that. The dogs not barking, yes, I do.    

And it’s hard to go wrong with something Suessian:

I do enjoy this flowery space.

But would you want them in a vase?

Or pressed up to your nasal space?

Not near my nose, for I’d get sneezy.

Not in a vase: I’d still be queasy.

Should I press them in a book?

Or behind glass, where you still can look?

I think that we should let them be,

I blame it on my allergy.

 

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