TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
& other curiosities :: profile
I return from a funeral and contemplate the daffodils outside my door. Yellow, frilled heads bob in a subtle breeze, while two miles down the road, a middle-aged woman lies in her final bed, surrounded by her grieving loved ones. Fresh tender buds light up my hedgerow. Everywhere, even now, spring's quickening.