I've tried to take a walk (or super-short jog which probably looks to the naked eye like an awkward walk anyway) about everyday since the weather has warmed, and the daily progression of blossoms has not escaped my notice.
On a street perpendicular to mine, I've trained my eye on a few trees that sport small blood-red buds. I'm so curious what and when they'll pop forth. I mean, there's a relatively narrow range of possibilities, I suppose -- small white flowers, small pink flowers, etc. Still, it's a mystery, and I like surprises.
My favorite trees at the moment are, I think, tulip trees. There are four or five on the walk I took the other night, and as I walked beneath their pink and white elegance, long petals dropped around my feet. I picked up three perfect petals to make up for the dozens I crushed underfoot, and held them up to my face.
They felt less like rose petals and more like taut, springy plastic.
I smelled them. They smelt of hot dogs, with the faintest hint of old lady perfume.
And here you have the tension in which I live: the poetry v. the curiously prosaic reality
2 comments:
hot dogs may be many things, but they can never be prosaic. when i think of hot dogs, i think of three things: mustard seeds, red hots and walt whitman.
oh man, i miss red hots. bad.
great inventions of 2008:
the "jalk": a gauche muddle of a walk and jog
the hot dog tree: inspired by summer nights, recent food shortages and tulip trees
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