The willow escapes from the ordinary with wet feet. Churlishness aside it favors us with salicylic acid, the bane of your terrible, unconscionable headache. The willow goes beyond mere solicitude by drooping close to river surface and sighing. Willows bear their young in the slinky strands of their branches. Their lullabies prove comforting like a piano floating in the breeze. The willow can pronounce many large words but life is not a game. Life is a motivation to live while willow stands at river edge and watches canoe disappear. Politically, willows bend because the winds of change and so on. Like most people, there's no stopping a willow from drooping. In the murky sentence of summer the willow goes nowhere, being rooted in moment. Willows vote pro-union because reasons always matter. Matter itself does not. This cuts close to the willow of willow, a timeless retort to timelessness where vacations seem possible and busy carpenters cast their hammers skyward.
The work becomes chiding of sunlight. The work is elegy and shaded. The principle ciphers as a god, in the way transience is purpose. Transience works this brief, ending fields, making trees concern. The hell of halting midway identifies the work of burning thru. Forever makes a sign. Sign makes worthy. Indeed the tramp of feet forward concludes any sentences but suggests more. Long sentences, stupid words. The caroling heard by Dante, brilliantine remorse for a better tide. The long road up from down, and turned around. The work then becomes the work now, as stained glass similitude. Anxious in the class structure of catastrophe, the baying song over all. Nothing to do but be done. Ruskin gave you papers to remind you. Slow battering concedes the earth in time. Time being functional and oblique. The worker inside sees the nation by exhalation. Transitive connection sports of culture. The class that ends becomes the class that begins, both left and right.
Comments