Tuesday, December 21
LITTLE TIME We must go for a walk in the freshly-washed world, he says. We must venture into the thicket with cacti in our open corneas. There is so much to see, little time. Little time, trickling from an eave. Little time, dropping from leaves, falling, collecting, becoming serious puddles for paper boats to cross. We must build a paper-boat in the freshly-puddled world, he says. We must write our secret names on the hull. Little boat, braving the wavescapes. Little time, before water softens paper. Was it earlier, a newsman reported a young mother's body washed to shore during the storms. I imagined her shoes, little boats. The newsman spoke to us. He said: And now, way ahead of time, she was gone. (Alina Stefanescu)