…I recovered a childhood habit of mine…a prismatic paperweight with singular orange and green bands running through…holding it to my eye in the late afternoon light…the clear view felt like time had been endlessly rewound and replayed…orange pained me with dread of captivity…green spoke a language that made my adrenaline rush and my blood sing…
…in late spring/early summer…I’d collect fallen tulip poplar blooms…running my fingers over and through the petal design…yellow, orange, and green…I’d hold the flower to my eyes…looking skyward under a midday sun…kaleidoscoping the colors…to and through an opaque life…but the essence of the bloom…that gave a new define: wings like fractured, dust-beaten windows knowing the first few raindrops that bullet-hole clarity— a body of shadows with a spindle leg strong hold on dew slick bark— the humid conception & resurrection— of cicada hum…
E.A. O'Connell
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