Cold winter, snowy, then frozen. Then it rained.
In it, I celebrate my years.
The tiny island in the middle of the Brandywine river has the shape of a golden heart, blighted by frost. On the river banks grew Sycamore trees, their white bright branches rise and twist against heavy metal skies. I set next to the glass windows and watched: I saw the lovers, wrapped in their love as they stood by the somber water.
It was the year in which the Eagles won the super bowl. Meaning, I was there and then, like a pin with a note attached to it, like a broken branch vibrating against a rock in the river flow. Oh, God!
Fog crawled out of the forest, and on to the salt grains that held the snow and I, I smelled the sea, though gone a long long time ago. In the tea Marie gave me I smelled the jasmine blossom in warm summer nights. Here, there is no jasmine and no one knows its scent. Sometimes tears come to my eyes and I cry a cry that is both great happiness and longing. Surprisingly, they meet.
I still grow, being stretched in all directions and then regain my poise.