The seasons are more than they seem.
Who would have thought the dogwood tree in
such wild flower would sliver
away into such a sickly state?
It’s something to anticipate. The direction, once begun, is
always down. The soundtrack contains
a note or two,
a melody there, then loses time.
The end is severe. Weren’t there
a few golden moments near the summer river?
Those dissolve.
The same song plays over in your mind.
An innate understanding of what
rewind means. Back where we started,
as a bridge is built from both sides at
once.
Every story needs one. Some are reliable
and hold up in high winds, swaying with the weather,
at the same instance others collapse in the water,
sheared metal, different bodies falling, waves across and up the shore.
The narrator lets the characters go.
Knowing the Golden Gate is named for a passage
and not the color of the span.
This is important to know for
it was painted to blend in with the
hills around. It takes a certain
kind of grace to be less sight than sound.
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