etenish
“Suppose I were to begin by saying that I had fallen in love with a color.”
A kite way up high in the arms of an evergreen—you are dizzy with the containment of delight as you expand to separate the threads from each bough: captive imagination, the manifestation of vague longing.
Roots buried, the inquiry unveils more questions.
One perceives a single upright stalk; this is how we will do it.
Love is a cataclysm—the site where spirit strikes.
If no trees are present to interrupt such affairs, you will be assailed by a bird or a towering lamppost too precarious to mount.
Intervention is inescapable.
Photo source.
