cyclamen numbers
window grins, black and liquid with snowy night,
throwing back at me the pathetic philosophy
of a much too anemic light-bulb –
the reading lamp stands straight,
like a last redoubt of volition
against the darkness dancing outside.
light flows like a perfect c minor,
running its arpeggio over the objects inside the room
and over the book waiting patiently
to feast on my attention and on my mind.
that book…is an orphan book.
i adopted it the other day.
whoever left it on that bench in the park
must’ve hoped for a good soul to provide it with shelter.
or maybe they simply forgot it…
anyway, that book…came to me like all my things…
you see, i find things.
i find them and i label them, with numbers,
with a marker.
a cyclamen marker.
that was the first thing i ever found.
i found boxes of all sorts, coins, a watch,
a woolen shawl
(that one i couldn’t label…),
a flower pot with a weird tree in it
(a friend said it’s a bonsai –
don’t know what those are, it looks like a malformed child to me…),
i even found a cat once…
but that one licked itself
until the cyclamen number was gone from its fur.
that book is my latest found thing –
number 147.
cat purrs right next to it.
night strives to melt the window
and i gaze idly at the book’s reflection –
makes me wonder if i, at my turn, will ever be found too …
Interestingly idiosyncratic. If you found yourself, what number would you be?
Deep reflection is the mother of tangential thinking, and the grandmother of all things artful.
This had my attention all the way through.Am still thinking about it, thank you...maggie