Outside the window, trees in bloom,
pink blossoms stand out against the
glowing green new leaves of nearby
non-fruit bearing trees. If we were
in Japan, we'd be celebrating
and picnic under the blossoms;
I am, instead, drinking now-cold
decaf coffee in a warehouse-type
of space, somewhere just off of the
University of Minnesota campus.
Hanging on long nylon threads
from the exposed duct work are oversized
shiny red and silver Christmas bulbs.
As if someone forgot that the snow
no longer lives here in this northern
city. Or they decided to get a jump start
on next December's tasks. Or they
merely enjoy seasonal dissonance.
Maybe there is just too much stuff to
keep track of; too many books available
to read; and now, so many can be accessed
on Google. Where did my excuses go?
How does one decide where
to spend their precious time here;
when sand goes through every body,
like the hour glass on the long-running
soap opera, eventually returning us all
back to the dirt. Tap, tap, tap--now
you are tilled into soil and only
providing your remaining nutrients
to whoever comes next. So do you
spend your time taking down holiday
decorations? Or do you finally read
Edward Lee Master's Spoon River
Anthology, now available for free
on Google or perhaps Darwin's
The Origin of Species. I suppose it
depends on whether you are more
interested in where you came from
or where you are going.
Maybe you just sit under the fluffy
pink blossoming tree, or at least
stare at it out the floor-to-ceiling windows,
bitting your nails, with gusto.