Tag: quotes

a pot in search of a lid

Remnants of flower petals on the ground everywhere you walk. I’m sitting here reading in the just-breaking-from-sudden-raincloud-sunlight, tears streaming down my face. And I’m really grateful that the bookstore man wearing plaid (there is always a bookstore man wearing plaid here) is just letting me cry and read these words.

Then, I kid you not, “don’t let the sun catch you crying” plays gently on the speakers. Just like that.

I would like to admit that this weekend I reiterated my cynical view, that I don’t know if I believe in love. I would like to admit that it is most likely just that I know absolutely nothing about love, and yet try every day to learn about it with a clean slate and open mind. I would like to admit that I fail all the time, maybe as often as every five minutes. I lose hours upon hours of sleep over it. But what else to live for, but to live to learn how to love, then?

I didn’t want to admit all of that. But today, a practice of vulnerability over pride. Every day.

          

Oh, and final flowers of the spring (a.k.a how we know it’s summer):

hope was a letter i never could send/ love was a country we couldn’t defend.

you were a phonograph, i was a kid
i sat with an ear close, just listening
i was there when the rain tapped her way down your face
you were a miracle, i was just holdin’ your space

well time has a way of throwing it all in your face
the past, she is haunted, the future is laced
heartbreak, ya know, drives a big black car
swear i was in the back seat, just minding my own

and through the glass, the corn crows come like rain
they won’t stay, they won’t stay
for too long now

this could be all that we know..
of love and all.

well you were a dancer, i was a rag
the song in my head, well was all that i had
hope was a letter i never could send
love was a country we couldn’t defend.

– excerpted from Big Black Car, Gregory Alan Isakov

was hurrying on my way to something. still,  i took a breath to stand still and listen to the sound of saxophone as it wrapped itself around me.

it was slow, aching, craving- the type of jazz reserved for the moments between dead-of-night and almost-dawn when the syncopation of bodies match that sort of rhythm.

it felt naked and blooming and vulnerable when stretched out in noontime sunlight.

so bloom, baby, bloom.

I know I am but summer to your heart, and not the full four seasons of the year.

– Edna St. Vincent Millay

but oh what a summer i can promise.