Sunday Wildflowers

Yellow. But not the color of daisies and crayons. More like neon green, but yellow and not neon. Has the same effect. Blue. Light blue, but not powder and not pastel, but feels like baby blue. The colors together are pretty, but that kind of pretty that you know you’re supposed to think is ugly. Not that colors are … ugly. I’m looking at them and they remind me of nothing. Nothing that’s so full of something, I can’t name it. The result is that I’m happy and sad and confused and hopeful all at the same time. Bunch of damn wildflowers along the riverbank. Sand and grass and these damn little flowers that are overloading me. There’s a crane across the way. But at first I think it’s a log with a weird curved branch sticking out of the water. I stare at it for so long I start to think it’s a crane. But it doesn’t move. So I look away and think I see it move. When I look back, it’s not moving. Log, branch then. Except it moves for real; turns really slowly and its neck is so thin it almost disappears, bleeding into the reeds of grass behind it. It’s pretty too. Nothing ugly about the crane. I feel on the verge of calm. On the verge of peace. Haven’t felt that calm inner peace since…. Well he wasn’t the right one anyway, so what does it matter. Thank god, that’s behind me, barely register that I even thought about him, that’s how fleeting the thought is. So I’m on the verge of calm and peaceful. The band playing at the waterfront café starts their Beatles jazzy-review again. I like it. I immediately tune them out. Suddenly so envious of all these little groups and couples of young, outdoorsy, casual, easy going people sitting, walking, eating, talking, laughing, fishing. Want to go. Want to stay too. But I mean, I want to stay forever.  Buy a house up the idyllic little hill over there. Meet some ruggedly handsome guy and settle into this cozy small coastal town life I see demonstrated a hundred times over, every where I look. I laugh at myself. I can’t stand having to walk more than two blocks to get to a corner store. Would go crazy with idyllic. Want big urban metropolitan life. Which is more or less what I have. It’s time to go anyway. Have an artsy metropolitan urban life thing to go to in a few hours. Just can’t get those damn flowers out of my head.  Damn ugly-pretty yellow. Baby dreaming blue. Like Monet took acid.

Categories: Poems, Short Fiction

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