though it is afternoon, and gold light falls on woven rugs and parlour palms in chinese urns somewher, inside this room are shadowed walls where eastern sheen paints stripes of fear on gray and solitude is something to be learned alive, within this blue apartment where no one sits, but me. it seems that somewhere in the sunlit world beyond, footsteps fall slight on chevronned wood and voices rise in ficus tones, leaves unfurled in green and yellow laughter through white air, as if no shadow or gray pall ever could permeate the papers on their wall or diminish sun, there. outside my door the red wild roses run with thorns and bees, they sprawl and grow untended. they would be wild without the sun, but their bees and their redness indeed depend on its rising, setting, and the flow of one into the other. could the light rise me, run me wild, red the night? (c)Cynthia D'Adamo
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