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heavy coat
The black coat is light pellucid and fine, so akin to the state of that burnt thing which pulses mutely on the left side.
I wear it as a gown with internalized tears as jewels in the tender flesh, hidden by the night of my tresses.
The oil lamps at dusk, the tousling of the cherry trees by a cordial waft of the promise of spring. I breathe in the beauty and memorize it.
I wade through my sentience. A pond, horses and a fog. I see his stoicism in the reflection. Black shirt, blitheness and a butterfly.
I sit by his feet, my gown flowing in the milky water like a black swan bound by restraints, forbidden to unfurl its silken feathers.
He asks nothing of me. His hand, kissed by the winged creature, touches the innermost part of my canvas— a back pocket on the left side of the coat.
Out of it spills the paint of the reverie I had softly remembered, yellow ochre, all that prussian blue and the blush of the cherry blossoms.
The horses come to the water to drink. I hung my head low at the sudden relief, weightlessness, the bird-like briskness which seizes me, fills me, completes me.
Into the sleeve his hand slips and he draws me out— he sets my feet firmly on the grass and I stand.
