Drift

A break in the rain, but the pink snow of blossoms continues. When they slap you damply in the face, you really do not care that they are pink and deeply metaphorical. We've had a three-day weekend and I failed to get much done, tired out by work. When 'time off' is so precious, this feels like a terrible failure. Hard to set a course and hold to it, not to feel trapped and blinkered, not to hold so tight it hurts, but still to hold - holding on and letting go, both together. I read a novel that spins me in its sad tale, a poetry chapbook that, on second reading, opens itself and invites. These at least - the spark of response, the trap of preference - these whisper, you exist. You and the drifting blossoms, damp and pink and metaphors for something.