Morus On Monday I stay up all night. One thought rolls into another, ideas begetting ideas. A constellation that mimics a twisted spine. A bouquet of grief, insecurity, and regret. Mulberry, I learn, means I will not survive you. Another novel fact for my collection. I am momentarily amused - the idea of ascribing so much to something so benign. It’s not a small thing to say: I will not survive you. No, it’s the kind of thing that shifts existences. I’m reminded of Pyramus and Thisbe. I’m reminded of you. And understanding blooms, somewhere deep, because I would not have survived you. I remember our mulberry tree, all that time we spent beneath it, not knowing. A cosmic joke, invoking history and mythology, funnier than I initially thought. Or possibly not funny at all. (reposted, because I came back to reference this and found Diaryland had lost the original entry I posted in September.) 9:44 p.m. - 2024-01-11 |
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