Do most people have longings for other seasons? Sometimes in summer I can imagine snow scouring an empty public square as a solitary figures crosses it bent to the wind. Or I can envision the statues on a bridge shrouded in a thin but blinding flurry. By the same token in the midst of winter I find myself longing for an August afternoon in the garden, despite my realization that often the humidity drapes over you like a soaked bedsheet and the heat is so thick you can hardly breathe. In the arms of certain men I have longed for others, not so much in the way of fantasies (there are those and they are understandable), but rather in the way one cannot anymore resist wondering what is on another channel of the television. | |||
Who marks the widening spaces as these dark fingers close in on us, the river ruffled by the wind playing across its banks, this foreshortened palisade, the greening glade? |
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