Landscape, with Threads of Conversation

Wistful as a note, or a scent, or a thin stroke sharp as a paper cut, that leaves a ruby mark on the hand trailing idly through green. Here we are again on the brink of meeting or parting. Your hand cradles the porcelain cup as you drink. You tell me how the afternoons pass, what the hour is when the grey clouds begin to turn pink, how the veils of Spanish moss look tinged with frost. I know a story has to change, something needs to shift. Deck parasols fold down against a spate of oncoming weather: a squall, perhaps. This is simply preparation. Sometimes the unexpected never comes. Yesterday, as we drove by the river in clear-edged sunshine, a sudden gust scattered the thin ribbons of remaining ice beneath the windshield wipers. And it’s true one must be generally careful to note the uses of description as analogy, or in science. But when I point out a wading bird, a perch, the slant of vines on the shed, most times I’m really just talking to you.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.