Blog for Nameless-Value

novel, essay, poetry, criticism, diary

At Chilly Grayed Yellow Paler Noon

Dripping rainy trees surrounds residences and its murkilly ambiguous lighted noon air is so chilly, but Cerasus lannesiana Carrière is intersperced at any bushes, its purplish freshness makes passies by so awaken.


Voice of spring must be so close, air streaming is riding on our heartbeat, our breatheing is jumping all around.


Vague light of sun makes us think in deliberating, but, like incects’ readiness, we prepare for the spring coming.
Brain’s Angels sometimes whisper, but never so often.
At the advent of it must tell us ominously previously a little before it comes to us.
That voice must be fused with restless winter’s leaving readiness for immediate farewell telling.


Piping kettle tells boiling of water, smell of coffee tempts me to graft the word to another.


Shoot any vain fantasy, pull only useful spinning poem sound turned to be the chain in words.
The one who can do it is only you.


On your spun words in poetry, you could fly around the sky, and scoop the Angels’ wing by your hand on the cloud aircraft.


If you can do so, sunny spring skies make you in smiling step and it must exchange the sky all around you to be a whistler to the hope sunshine.


In widened sky, you can dream any words to be budded to the universe, its universe makes you a friend of the Angels travelling to the moon, and all around the universe.


(March 4th. 2019)