[Notes of the Day are short poems or a few poetic lines, kept together in a single ongoing poetry document.]
The most real things are the most unseen,
they swirl and eddy in little small laughs,
for anyone who has seen leaves swirl in a courtyard
will never say the wind is not real.
The leaves are green again.
Funny how, in winter, one forgets
what the color green looks like,
and in the summer, the skeletal
silhouettes of nude branches
are nothing but fading dreams.
Day by day, the sunflower sprouts,
and turns toward the sun in jealous admiration.
And day by day the blossom feels inadequate,
until it bows with the weight
of everything it achieved
while striving to be something else.
No one knows what the color black looks like
because it hides behind everything else,
and sits in the dark where no one can see it.
If only it were the same with the little dark fears
that try to graffiti black all over my brain.
There is nothing so graceful
as a feather falling.
It loops and glides and skis its way
down to the earth on little ribbons of air
because it served its purpose
and now knows what it’s like to be free.