Is it merely the temperature or a metaphysical thaw, all this melting, this evaporation, this trans-formation; where does it all go; and what is 'it' we are referring to? Not that it is something 'less' because nothing is lost, all is impermanent, the zen masters remind us; all is here, and nothing is lost; no-thing. in the vespers dusk, the scuds of clouds before this cafe window breeze leftward, it may be east or south, or both, I am not sure. These clouds (cumulus, stratus? cumulo-stratus? I forget my cloud taxonomy, from fourth grade; I need a nap, where different clouds can float by in front of a different sort of lens) of dusky gray lavender, ashy dustiness are already rehaped, gone, departed from what my fingers were tapping about moments ago. I do not lament them as lost, or found. Someone a few miles down the road is welcome to greet them. I moved a desk today. It stood in a room, for a few years. I was under that roof some twenty years. I was quick to describe my mood afterward as sad over this but one would have to ask why. Romancing a vision of some ideal that never was? Clinging with claw marks to some sort of cloudy mirage? The skeletal, bronchiated limbs of the winter trees across West Genesee Street stand silently before me. They too are as transient as those clouds above their sight line but one would not think it so readily. Those slender naked branches are eloquent. I bow before them, and them before me.
