Letters To The Debutantes (33)

Dear Miss Translucent Promesa,

Do you think spring asks the tree to wait for it? Letting it linger hard on the ground to wait with the uncertainty of a hummingbirds nest and anxiety of four way stop sign. And you know how fickle the seasons can get, more like the ocean current than a calendar. I can’t help but feel sorry for the tree, so proud but wanting, aching for spring but only really needing sun and water. I’d argue it’s worth it, not that you’d agree. But let me bother about myself now. I can’t seem to keep track of my focus anymore, it zooms and breaks between impossibilities and impracticalities. And I miss you, despite years of vacancy. Though I suppose it can be silly. The wild dogs from this land roam around chewing up any malice the fools drop. They tell me I dwell needlessly but understandably considering my mortality. One mutt told me an alley used to smell of steak scraps, marinated refuse, but no longer. The meat is gone, and with it, the smell of nirvana. He likens this to my day dream nature of you, but what do dogs know. Anyway, where’s your season these days?

Keep dividing with water and godspeed.

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