Roses

Roses. Maybe I like these too much, the dried flowers--certainly at this hour of evening, with the indigo light coming through the eucalyptus, and a scatter of dorm windows like jewels in the distance... The flowers redeem even the concrete--even the stained window glass (seasons of dust and rain), and so that I feel I'm somewhere in Gujarat, or on the Malabar Coast, awaiting the monsoon, or a festival procession, where great wheeled entities--the Gods--rumble slowly down to the sea.

But wait, let's be a bit more prosaic here--we'll settle for Aditya's cap, reflected there on the wall, green brim (Punjab, yes) or the single Egyptian bamboo pen, a scribe's ink, from Deborah. The wall thinned out, after the move back in 1999, so that just the essentials remain. Spoons on the ledge--a few of them, stacked together after a garage sale--maybe for Songs & Places (Banks of the Ohio), or the one empty terracotta pot--something Penny brought me once--a plant to tend, but I managed to leave it over winter break. The goldenrod lamp, slip showing, needs some tending as well.

No complaints though, this beautiful place, yes. Inside and out. Indigo...

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