The Art of Springtime Window Cleaning

I do not return. Sometimes, I do not finish the wine I like to drink poured into a Mason jar. Next morning, when I try to make coffee before sunrise, I can smell the acrid leftover wine. I do not return, for memories are like that wine – what I drank, from the Mason jar of time, was enough.

I do not re-read what I wrote. I write as I take pictures- once imprinted upon the pellicle of the moment, it is captive.  It is the foolish love of the unplanned, of the unsurprising yet intense that makes me write. One cannot re-read what was delightfully foolish.

I do not love till love makes me sign. And sometimes, I do not see, or I misread the signs. Then I wonder if it is not time, anymore, to love. But, during a walk in the rain or when in line for buying organic red beets, I laugh and just let myself be. Love finds me when brown eyes forget how much better red wine tastes when drank from a Mason jar.

And I do not pretend to know what the days have kept for surprises. Upon my balcony I hope to still fall in and out of love during a full moon, as a fool. And when a laggard cloud would veil the moon for a short while, to look at the city below my balcony and giggle as a kid.

A kid, gray-haired and ephemeropteric, who just made love, to destiny, upon his balcony.                  

May 25, 2012

©Vahé Kazandjian, 2013