Great ideas come to those in retrospect.
The Tazo tea–Lotus–steeping in the cup, paper. And this reminds me: Downtown Syracuse should put out more recycle-friendly bins. I am one of those persons who finishes what’s in the cup, drinking tea for enjoyment and refreshment and soul saturation. However, amidst the vapor wafting through the mouth of the cover, Franklin Square was drenched in perceived feminism.
It’s perceived, because of several reasons. The cherry blossoms, the buds and the colors, and anything frivolously delicate. Of the approximated people seen: all women (10), minus 1 (oh, so 9). The one male was tending to the dogs. If this were text, an actual text and not an entry out reading and comprehending from the feminist approach to analyze literature would have come too easily. There is sexuality with the blooming, the budding, the pollination, and whatever biological allusion one can come up with. The one male, aside myself–alone–was tending to the dogs while his significant other grabbed a drink from Freedom of Espresso.
Let me be clear–for fear my words may be taken out of context–that women are the better halves. Please take into beauty, delicate nature, reliable and bold intuition, and voice.
Accepting my place in this given moment, the pollen smell heightened. This was the first time, taking notice of the smell of pollen. There was fear of my possibly developing allergies; however, that notion faded–I did not sneeze.
As the late afternoon sun still confidently shined beyond the trees, the urge to take a picture was not resisted.
And on to six.
In the distance, she stepped upon springs.
[Switch to present tense]
Amongst the cherry blossoms, she glides from sidewalk to sidewalk. In hand, she totes a camera far superior than mine; it can catch every ray in a person’s iris, each ray bursting out and describing a person’s heart and soul. She takes detailed photographs that she means to, without acknowledging intention of actually doing so. In a floral sun dress–not to clash with the cascading intermittent petals descending around her–the wind slightly teases its hem with each swift movement. She’s never inappropriate, Nature.
It’s whimsical. She stops to take pictures of the bloom. The aura is a combination of graces: the floral odors and the freeze frames. It’s cognition building.
After settling to her soles, she aims the camera for a shot. She places a bow on every spot she stops after lacing invisible ribbon through the street. The only disheveled part of her is her hair, but only a few strands, which are thoughtlessly pushed behind her ear.
And I, with my shoulder companions gagged–that little devil, he–and jaw to the floor–as an angel observes another–bide my time, thinking of excuses to not get in my car. She walks on air, gracefully, not missing a step for yielded stutter-step. And I, so particularly at a loss for words, utter to stutter something along the lines of:
And they say there is no actual spring in Syracuse.
And to kick myself, courtesy of those hidden now-teamed shoulder companions, to where I bite my tongue. She looks at me, smiling, and our eyes meet, and time conception is a drunken stupor as her soft blue eyes meet mine. A strand of hair falls, and she swiftly places it behind her ear, slowly moving her hand down and away–acknowledgement! However, she still smiles in agreement, goes on her merry way.
Great ideas come to those in retrospect.
[Return to past tense]
I could have said…
Miss, would you like a picture of with your camera? It would be you within the petals, basking in the tiring sun’s rays trickling through the branches. This seems to fit your personality, your style, and the natural light will do you justice.
But no. My attempt had been rewarded with a smile, however, and a moment.
She probably wasn’t the one; otherwise, my quick thinking would have been explored.
At least I know the type I am looking for.
I play with words and invisible objects.
A mind, a pen and a piece paper have the best relationship ever.
"Remember this--if you shut your mouth, you have your choice."
- F. Scott Fitzgerald