In Tangerine Live, I typed a phrase that lingers now like an echo in my head. Evening rose. I'm picturing that, rolling it around in my mind like a pebble in the hand. Imagining flowers, twilight...more. Ripples. Words like the sound of a bell. Images that spread and interact, overlap. Memories shifting into thoughts and back. Tidal.
December is, I think, an evening rose.
Always something deeper to the one after eleven, for me. Time and days wash by in calendar squares, each tinted differently. December, however, seems more deeply steeped in thoughts and memories, rippled and reflected images. Concentric waves sent out by the year, colliding and piling up, here. Past and future, thinning. Meanings doubled.
An evening rose.
...tonight. It was cold and clear, pushing a sky of orange and pink. My favorite rose is like that; I remember it swaying at dusk, after a Summer rain. I remember its perfume. I remember the taste of that drop of rain, glimmering --
-- Like the stars in the tall jet sky do now, the first night into December.
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