"Sorry" said the plants as they push their way between the bricks, burst through glass panes, and wrap around any and every vertical thing. "You give us sunlight and a little rain and we cannot HELP growing..."
I stand with my forehead pressed against the greenhouse window, hands cupped on either side to shield the sun's bright glare and try to see within. Following vein patterns, the white paint peels off in clumps. There it is: time. Sleeping rows of irrigation tubes dangle from overhead pipes. The panes of glass on the roof are shattered, some missing entirely, and leafy tree tops spring from the gut of this lonely structure.
And as I peer into the past, present, and future I feel a giant brush rinsing swirling colored paint into my soul.
3 comments:
Sissy, please never write a novel. If you did, I would have to retire.
...because it would have absolutely no plot and would evoke images of Disney on LSD (more than regular Disney, I mean)?
The images from Disney make you feel trippy? How bizarre. I guess I can see what you mean with Dumbo, or Alice in Wonderland. I just meant you have a way with imagery.
I've been looking at this area that we live in (wasn't sure if it was kosher to use specific locations) through DL's eyes - do you remember when she commented on how green everything is around here, compared to the Southwest? I've really been appreciating that recently.
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