Balcony Season

On days like this, when the air is warm/cool and the sky is molting its winter grey into fresh skin and blue, I love my balcony the most. Wancy and I spent worlds of hours on it, writing (him) and reading (me) and talking (us) until we could plot the points of universal interference on our own internal graphs enough to know that no algorithm existed to explain our whys. Every point an outlier.

Alone, the balcony is the get-it-together place, the tamp-down-these-thinkings place, the fire escape for times of quickening and rarely but also forest fires. Stories burn well on the balcony and are contained in perpetuity. It’s such a good place.

Today I went out and got coffee, and on the way home thought this is what I’ll do, I’ll start balcony season. I have neglected books to read, and there is the sun and air and warmth again. And because today is so beautiful, some e.e. cummings:

be unto love as rain is unto colour; create
me gradually(or as these emerging now
hills invent the air)
breathe simply my each how
my trembling where my still uninvisible when. wait

if i am not heart,because at least i beat
–always think i am gone like a sun which must go
sometimes,to make an earth gladly seem firm for you:
remember(as those pearls more than surround this throat)

i wear your dearest fears beyond their ceaselessness

(nor has a syllable of the heart’s eager dim
enormous language loss or gain from blame or praise)
but many a thought shall die which was not born of dream
while wings welcome the year and trees dance(and i guess

though wish and world go down,one poem yet shall swim)


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