One day, when all this ends, and it will one day, for everything ends, I will name it:
The chapter of the Cardinal.
In a crust of pale indifference its bright feathers were the embodiment of a beating frozen heart. In days to come, a tiny figurine of a red Cardinal will make my spirit rejoice with remembrance, mindly unfolding like a fancy oriental fan: Hills of fields and forests, farm houses and dirt roads, woofie pies and sourdough crackers.
Other chapters have long since faded, though they still come back, carried by sound and sight perfumed air, and I know someone somewhere lives them as I once did:
A childhood that is sand and scented desert shrubs; Youth of soft silent winds in darkened streets and empty playgrounds, where daytime chatter dissolved into the hastened sound of my footsteps.
There was the chapter of Jerusalem, a tangled dream between stone walls and dust and the cruelest brightest sunlight, from which I fled to the Galilee, where prophets speak of birds and flowers and only madmen turn the tables.
A note to myself for all springs to come:
A red bird on the branch of a dormant tree is singing –