Spring Willows

Nostalgia is the nectar for the soul, memories ambrosia for the heart. Nostalgia for, and memories of, another life, a shared past, glimpses of sunlight in that haze of mist that is the transmigration of the soul. We have passed each other a hundred thousand times, hurrying along on paths that meet and separate. And I often wonder if I will ever see you again, you whose warmth I remember only through a smile; I cannot recall your eyes though they must have been filled with light. On that spring morning I saw you last, framed by draping willows that saved their weeping for after our separation, in the hum of a glistening stream behind us, in the haze of tears that would later well in my eyes. I think you said something to me, but I cannot remember, for the gods are kind and benevolent, and they know that oblivion saves the heart from breaking over and over again. But I wish I could see you again, wish I could recall those parting words that have escaped me now that over five hundred years have passed. If love is granted over countless lifetimes of waiting, I wonder how many I have left to wait.

Par des branches nues

Je suis en train de regarder la chute de neige et c’est incroyablement beau. Incroyablement belle cette nuit, la pâleur du ciel, la neige en train de danser pendant qu’elle tombe. Et c’est comme si même dans cette crise qui est la pandémie, qui est l’incertitude du moment global, mondial, quand même il y a quelque chose d’exquise qui rend le sens à la vie, peut-être, un sens, aussi un sentiment de la beauté qui existe, qui n’a jamais cessé d’exister; et il y a un homme en face de moi que je peux voir par les branches nues. Et peut-être, je crois qu’il ne sait pas que je suis en train de le regarder, je crois qu’il ne sait pas même qu’il y a une personne d’autre dans ce monde qui l’aperçoit, qui peut le voir. Mais comme nous deux, nous sommes en train d’apprécier la chute de neige, d’apprécier cette pâleur qui est le ciel, ce gris qui est si unique, c’est comme si nous deux, nous sommes en train de partager un moment ensemble bien que nous soyons complètement séparés.

Coffee Shop in December

Snow against the windowpane; who knew angels fell so softly? I’m sitting by the window, cup of cocoa in my hand, listening to the soft jazz humming from some hidden speaker amidst the orbs of light that frame this coffee shop on the corner of two unmarked streets. In moments like this, mid-December, half-magical from the holidays, half-quiet from a long and sleepless year, I lay my forehead against my wool sweater, feel the threads tickle my brow. I’m waiting for fate, like everyone else here, waiting for my muse, waiting for a sign. I’m waiting for some interesting face, not attractive necessarily, just interesting, asking for a story. But we are tired souls sitting in the same station, waiting for the next train. There are stories to be written but my pen is out of ink. So I sip my cocoa and watch the snowflakes fall like angels, humming a carol for them as they drift and drift away.

Spring Wind

Remember when the spring wind used to kiss your cheek? It’s on its way to give you that embrace that it had promised you, so very long ago. A “long ago” of cotton candy clouds and petals on the pavement fluttering like butterflies, when sweet dew drops lingered on blades of grass and all eternity seemed to linger in those little orbs. A “timeless past” when time was no matter at all, only a hazy line between bathtime and dinnertime, playtime and naptime, when watches seemed like mere accessories and not those ticking arms that always circle and circle about, rushing us on our way. The spring wind was always with you then, by your side in all seasons, in summer memories, autumn reveries, winter dreams, and there was no moment when its sweetness strayed far from your lips. It’s a little older now, but just as sweet, and it’s on its way to wrap you in its soft breeze, to whisk away your tears beneath the quiet moon on this winter night.