Walk over the dead leaves.
Hear the fall and smell the morning chill as if a promise time has kept
for you. The woods are far, the city is
of concrete, old stones, unshaved men and menly women. Yet the leaves are dead, because urban trees
do not drink morning dew with the pleasure you drink your coffee, before
sunset. Urban trees do not see the
sunset as they were planted facing north.
Walk with your dog.
Watch him find what he had already found yesterday. And the day before. For you take the same road, because it is the
only one you have. The woods are far,
the city has asphalt roads, and you think about night blooming Jasmine when you
walk the city roads. The same road. Where all scents are old, even when the day
is new.
Walk simply, as you always come back to the same house
looking south. Where the balcony was
once a view over the passing of people and time. Where you celebrated sunsets even if you
could not see them. Yet you knew they
were upon the ocean. You could almost
smell them. You could hold your breath
and recall the times you sat by the shore, spitting sunflower seed shells, and
dangling your toes close to the water.
You were a sunset away then from another day.
Walk slowly. You have
nothing to discover. Your pillow has the
perfume of last night. Your bed is still
of her shape taken. But you will come
back to an empty house, now only vibrant by the sounds of the coffee-maker
running on the same daily program you set when your bed was of her shape always
warm. Now you take the leash off your
dog, clean the sleepees from his eyes, and let him sigh as he flops in his
usual spot.
It is a new day.
October 14, 2009
©Vahé Kazandjian, 2013
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