Saturday, January 10, 2009

British accents. Accents and stresses that crack through glass ceilings, one jagged, asymmetrical ring at a time. So you can understand my confusion when potted plants don't receive enough nourishment despite skylights and sunlights and rainstorms that make bricks darker, contemplative. Stern eyes stare down from clouded edges but their eyes reflect from underfoot. Keep those boots on, tread lightly because ten can become one hundred can become one million and we don't want to make the cyclops jealous lest we want everything pulled up from their roots. Dirt and mud and something that tastes like iron but wallows in envy of ripe strawberries.

Salty.

The plants that bear no fruit, they grow and grow inward. I labelled these pods in dull dark blue markers. "Promises". They remain empty, escape pods that have nowhere to go, even with shattered glass and frames that never complete their corners. Tread. Boots. The pots. Don't tip them over. Yells and dirtied knees will follow suit. Because there's a chance that things worked out. That the equations and addition and multiplication and always division, never subtraction, will all line up and the rainlightdirt will have done the job right. That there will be fruits to pick ever so delicately between forefinger and thumb.

But the gardener will never know, not until it happens.

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