blossom time again, unfolding, veined so like skin, so brief, heaping up like snow on branches tumbling down.
Thinking of skin, perfect imperfect thinking that when April is done and dusted perhaps I can fold up some more grief to put aside. But every day waking to renegotiate life and loss. When will it not feel like loss or does that just keep going on til one is lost gone dead? shedding shedding skin adding to the blanket of dust that surrounds us - the urge to be horizontal to muffle all the living. Wonder where the edges of the body are - they seem never to be as clear as one might like to image even in a concrete phisiological way.
So many small wonders float away on the wind, are never recorded, three swallows scuffle in the air then almost seem to hang there. The scent of apple blossom late at night, petals luminous on the ground
Wonder why on earth I embarked on a losing weight diet some 12/13 days before Easter....
not true beauty, a fantasy skin
needing a touch
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