For the one in a pickle

In late spring
When season brings
Sounds and scents
And silver crescents
I hunt them raw
With small stones
Hurled at trees
In lush overtones

--

Sickled and sliced
They lay bare
While I pare
Their outer layers
In oil and spice
I drown their souls
And seal them tight
In china bowls

--

For sixty nights
And sixty days
Ebony and light
They embrace
Till they are tender
But a little trite
I take one on a plate
And then, I write

--

I am amused
That my muses
Still have doubts
On being used

A Constant Reminder

This is a new start, isn’t it?
(Though for a purist, I wonder if new start = return back)

Still, new home in the same city... and loads and loads of cartons...
If you see me now, a six feet tall man standing in middle of a tiny penthouse on the thirteenth floor, you will not be able to see me, because the cartons tower over me...Possessing so much material stuff can be justified I guess, but for packing and moving!

The problem with break-ups is... the person moving out has to take with him every single thing he ever possessed... as if his stuff is shattered glass... every single tiny shard has to be accounted for and thrown out lest it pricks a tiny toe and causes pain...

Anyways...I don't care... I will unpack, read a book, sleep...I love being alone...I have decided past will not bother me...What if I find a kohl stained tissue in one of my coat pockets or a missing CD or half torn photographs or returned greeting cards (yeah...she will return bits of paper and letters and all... but kept all my mixed CDs...Women!)... no big deal!

I am tired of this already. Now, let me open the book carton and read something...
Whoa! On the top of the pile I see one of her books...good...good...let her miss something too...

I open the book. A bookmark falls out of it. She did this...after reading a book, she would hand make a bookmark and write a quotation from the book on it and keep it in the already read book...Duh! For what purpose!

I pick up the bookmark. On it, in her characteristic slanting writing is penned,

"The threshold of a new house is a very lonely place - Atwood"