The Tears of May

Here, the month of May holds that timid stillness, where pieces of life peek out from a bud in a cloudy sky.

I go to a park around the corner.

Nothing but wind… a bike lies against a tree like an old friend. It seems to have gotten lost, but is content with resting there.

The tree is cold, a little barren. Others around it have crowned their blossoms, but only partly. There is a sense of failure, of acceptance, and freshness in this park, with a soil still hard from winter.

I lie down - the sky is a washed-out blue, like worn denim. Shy, a bit tired, its face is familiar to one I see in the mirror sometimes.

The magnolias by my door have bloomed, with a white heaviness that falls in cups on my hair.

Today the world is sad and quiet. And yet, I sometimes prefer these days to those bright, crisp, distinctly “spring” days. Today, I can simply exist, and that is enough.

One’s loneliness, failures, and bitterness are embraced with small dots of color: in a red frisbee, a budding flower.

The universe paints with such deep complexity, and this is the tableau where all is still, all is simply okay.