a stern talking to

April. Sometimes, you know, a Thing is just a thing. It's not a symbol, it's not a portent, it's not even the beginning of a metaphor. When a wheel on the collapsible shelves in the basement whacked me on the hand, maybe it was just an oops, not a scolding directed at me from the library gods. And the ring on my finger with the silver leaves isn't necessarily a representation of new life or openings, and it's probably not a stand-in for thorns. There's no point in continuing to mistake silence with Silence, no point in finding the shapes in the coffee stain on my sleeve. If it rains and the morning is gray, well, it is spring after all. I don't have to always tell myself that the skies are mourning along with me because a beloved roommate has moved out and my brothers are away. I guess there is sometimes a reason to look under and around the actual, to pull meaning out from where it's hidden. But self, you go too far. Too far, when you're reading a sentence that has been handed to you, and you realize if you take it completely out of context, it might Mean something quite different. That is way too much of sifting through way too small a pile. Stop fracturing the the solid into all those shards of imaginary. ...All poetry aside.