The sun hung in the sky like a teabag seeped in clouds, diffusing a cold and muted light. The cold caught in my throat, whispered in hushed tones, This is winter. This is just the beginning. And as the chill took root in my limbs, my fingers, my toes, I believed it and eulogized warmer months in iambic pentameter to the shuffling of my feet amongst fallen leaves.
These days waking life seems more metaphor than dreams. At lunch as I pulled the collar of my sweater closer to my throat, my eyes fell like unripe apples to a one-winged bee hobbling over concrete. It seemed determined to stay the course, climbing ridges in it’s simple and invalid way, heading west, always west, like a wounded zephyr. Was it searching for it’s final resting place? It seemed to know the way– and doesn’t the sun also rise in the east and set in the west?
Resting at the base of a tree like a gravestone, a smaller tree sits cemented in a pot and amputated of branches, frozen in a perpetual phantom state, the words, “DIE, DIE, DIE,” written in bold print on a Priority Mail packing sticker. Walking by this almost everyday, it never evokes the quiet solace of a cemetery to me. I find the image loudly unforgiving and restless– dead, but in an unrelenting state of inertia, like the one-winged bee, forever heading west in my mind.