Conservatories 2/1 –

There are tiny, swirling motes of dust and gold dancing in the wind and held for tiny moments in their own instant of fiery spinning life by the cold and molten eye of the winter sun

The steam of a cafe’s heat vents onto the streets and sidewalk in dusty, curling waves of vapor against the clear air of a chill day in the wake of a storm.  Each pulse of the breath of mist unfolds like a cat stirring from a long nap, then desperately, silently is diffused into the ocean of January.

Waxen leaves like streamers from a child’s handlebars festooned and dry towers of hardy cone are stripped away in a day’s storm and revealed as new life to be celebrated and wave their banners in a fresh young breeze with the promise of paradise to the eyes of people far below who have long since lost the light to look for them


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