|Only once, River. Only once.|
As therapy, and part of a slow-withdrawal technique, we wanted to let you know what we're not writing poems about tonight.
Things We Will Not Write Poems About Tonight
1. Certainly not the light in the early evening. Clear, luminous, but then, the very yellowness of it, the essence of what yellow should be, making every other yellow thing seem a bastard in comparison.
2. And for God's sake not the sky. It was just blue, but, you know, a very very pale blue, so light I thought it might be floating away, held only to the earth by the ring of lovely violet that anchored it around the horizon.
3. Not the fields: all around the checkerboard of spring: new-turned earth, a warm dirty brown, plowed and tilled; the winter-wheat fields, already mature, deep grass-green; and the still-waiting fields, beige and stubby with last year's corn: brown, green, beige, brown, green, beige.
4. Nor the trees, finally, finally leaved after that stupid long white winter, trees that waited until May to wake up and grow; how still the new leaves were in the early evening, like illusionistic paintings of trees, but the yellow light on the new green maybe making a color that only lived in that minute.
5. Definitely not writing about the clouds, the flat-bottomed cumulus that cleared out from the pale sky then piled up in the east, as if they couldn't quite fall over the horizon into night.
6. Not mentioning Heraclitus, what's he doing in this post, anyway? If he had been driving this ordinary Ohio road tonight, would he have told us that he who does not expect the unexpected will not find it, since it is trackless and unexplored? Would he have recognized that sui generis yellow?
Because Sam Smith. Paris. Sad love.
I don't have much to give,but I don't care for gold / What use is money,when you need someone to hold / Don't have direction I'm just rolling down this road / Waiting for you to bring me in from out the cold