If the grasshopper is a shiny thing, then sometime at the end of its life it might resemble the underbelly of those clouds entangled in twilight. And oh, poor Tithonus, how you’re still dying somewhere, over there, way over there, on the brink of spring. A golden clover, a pearly husk, a capsized tree, a bullet from an acorn ambush—the daylight shakes with so many leavings. I know where the fairies go, to plant the earth with little golden rings. If you don’t find one, you will die right now; if you don’t find one, he will never say your name. The twilight will bring you remembrance, but it won’t mean a thing. It won’t mean anything. Tithonus, you’re so small now, you’re the goldest of the golden dust motes in this ray of sunlight here. You’re dying on the brink of spring, and your dying won’t mean a thing. You see, the babbling brook, the brook is only just babbling.
The hearth can be taken to mean the accumulation of things. The peonies in the vase—they’re only imaginary. They’ll disappear when you turn to look outside, somewhere, over there. You won’t have it, not the stoker, not the poker, not the candle snuffer. He’s out in the shed, building a little wooden something for you, only he isn’t; he’s imaginary too. He doesn’t smell of crumbling leaves; his hands aren’t encrusted with earth; instead, he has a little something; look closely: it’s up his sleeve. And when you’re blowing on the wood; and when you’re kindling the little flame, attend to, attend to. That little heart can get so cold. That little heart can’t even keep the little dormouse. Warm.
Today, the stew is better than it was yesterday. Today, the stew has a bit of rue. I didn’t mean to; I didn’t do it. On purpose. You should know better; you should know how it would turn. Out.
Comments (0)
Add a comment
You must be logged in to post a comment.