Seminar: Survival

"They would choose freedom, no matter how fleeting.  . . .  Survival is insufficient."

 

Snail mail

A friend sent long a letter back before winter solstice. It arrived today, complete with a packet of tea, and I can only assume the delay was because the Universe knew how much I needed the message today.

Allegedly April

It has never not been March.

I think of February and everything that came before it as The World That Was.

This is not April.

"April" makes no sense.

April has egg hunts; lawn parties with big hats; get-togethers with girlfriends, lilacs, lemonade & lamb; cakes with violets on top; team sports; group hikes; picnics; kissing outdoors.

None of this is happening.

The next 4 weeks shall be known for the moon, and we shall call it "Pink" or "Seed," "Wind" or "Grass." Future historians (if there is a future, and if there are historians in it) will argue about which name was *really* used for the time that was AllegedlyApril; they will throw up their hands and send the matter to the folklorists.

I want to shred my resume and print new business cards: Figure Model & Fortune Teller.

Two Days

Two days, one poem.