When it is cloudy, spring smells like cinnamon. The flowers are spicy in the cool grey. Exhausted, they tell stories of their time in the sun’s exquisite unrelenting grip. I lie on my back, watching green dance to grey. In the sun, the leaves are many faceted, a glorious mosaic of shattered glass, each piece wriggling, pinned by a ray of straight exacting light. Their complexities are illuminated without mercy. It is tiring to be complex. Under the clouds, the leaves sigh, glad to be whole again. And the flowers smell like cinnamon, warm and bright because for once they eclipse the sun.
Cinnamon Spring
More by Yellow Sweater
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τό καλόν, τό ἀληθές, τό ἀγαθόν (Transedentals)
The woman wears her skin
like a bathrobe.
She stands in the middle
of a golden field,
weeping fresh water.
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The Storm's Eye
The sky
blows in more snow,
a breath
from frozen elsewhere.
There is a storm
raging
inside the silent rage
of the storm,
inside God’s eye,
unopened.
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Cubism
‘"With your pictures you apparently want to arouse in us a feeling of having to swallow rope or drink kerosene.”
– Braque to Picasso
Maybe it’s as simple as this:
Maybe God’s hundredth name is His face.
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