I was fine in the winter. Endless confetti fallen from rubbing fingers. White blankets lowered over slumbering lawns, and pillows pushed tight to the edges of driveways. Ices of silence.
I was fine in the winter but I like this better. Snow static—retracts; frosted sheets recede. And now the melting begins within reality itself. The world we've known for months whispers itself away. It is a world in transition, and this place is a only channel towards its nonexistence.
Yesterday, looking through the window into the backyard, I saw through a spot in the tree, straight through to the house on the other side. Half-aware, we go about our business, as transparency slowly claims the side of a car, a neighbor's limbs, a section of chain-link fence.
The patches of a humming spectrum—radiation, electromagnetism, color—shimmer between the tears of the weakest threads. And curtains of air ascend into the sky, revealing, in succession, a new vertical plane, and another.
And so perception born of spring peers through the seen, beyond to...something else.
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