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You know it’s hard to concentrate when pear trees across the street burst out overnight, flaunting their astonishing plumes of white confetti. Somehow stakes are higher as days lengthen and winter surges through its last cycle. I feel the pressure pushing down on me. In the mail there’s a brochure about planning your own funeral. Who does that? On the walkway, a mat of blossoms. When I look into the agility of the air I see what brings life to life, as though entitled to sprout wherever it wants. Shouldn’t I be entitled to an extra day that doesn’t appear on the calendar? A moment to be in the moment. Down William Street the wind flowers. A turbulence roiling the branches, leaving a trail of debris against the curb. Hieroglyphs scoured into layers of mud last week’s rain hasn’t dislodged, indecipherable as handwriting smeared in the margins of a page torn out from a book that’s been lost.
Alan Soldofsky’s books include In the Buddha Factory (Truman State, 2013). He is Director of Creative Writing at San Jose State University.
Copyright 2020 Alan Soldofsky