The yellow Daffodil: a noting from the insomniac-tic tourist

March 24, 2014

My dreams – yes the actual REM, vivid, lucid, embroidered – tactfully wake what I need most: closure.

And as metaphorical nature illustrates:
a bulb sprouts underneath a baulky-of-a-boulder on Thursday. Peculiar location, young one.
It’s the one Jack and I jokingly bickered about, “No way he survives!” – “It’s not spring yet” – “Let’s lift the rock and bring him inside!” –
Clowning commentary, the boulder laughs along too, as it weighs my weight – yet

to the second power,
and divided by forty-two.

Friday, it snows, it sleets. 18467 car accidents. 684931 weddings.

I find myself performing pirouettes the parking lot again – after REM, caTching air.
Haunted by the realness (and the hopeless yearn for a mutual reality) of 5 o’clock’s REM –
My gasps heighten – an aqueous solution, vibrant and chilly, encompasses my upper cheeks. The tears slide from their ducts, roll down a defined jawline, and cast their sails to dance with my neck.

My stride stops. A yellow, in peripheral, sporadically electrifies this morning’s air – it parches my thoughts.

Full bloom, Daffodil.


– icy, it bites into my feet –


– grimey, they divot –

Precocious behavior young one – oh you zany creature.

In REM and reality I whole —

forth and further to closure.

Screen door slam.
Kalispell Par

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