I shall pass it again, and remember the high school stage, all the foreground blackness as if I could sense all of outer space ahead beyond all our instruments. And somehow back then it seemed as if it all would be played somewhere in my head. But now, soon it shall be lunch, and down this ephemeral hall the spokes on the wheels shall barely blur on by. And by some grace maybe we may come to believe we remain all along much more than this present gust of wind.
Somewhere within the clouded grain, and underneath the yellow smile, maybe fake, or not, somewhere within the skin, within the box somewhat also too hidden, maybe forgotten, somewhere within the timber, the timbre awaits. Somewhere all of life’s splendor is far more than antique furniture or tree or paneling or wood or tired peeling name, or all that once was, or only the breeze, but remains. Somewhere outside in the cold, the brittle brown leaves hold tight to the pin oak, even in the icy rain.