March 13, 2022
It only takes a few hours of stubborn sunlight for the smell of summer to slip through the trees. I wonder, in the least scientific sense possible, what light does to leaves. I know there is an answer, but it is simpler than the one I’m after and I learned it once, in a classroom where stools met slick slabs of table and I took notes, I’m sure, as someone spoke of sun and how green things grow, but really, I only showed up when I felt like making her laugh. She took hard fact and made it softer, somehow, replacing reason with reverie, and my notebook, long buried, sat between us and held, certainly, a secret language about what it meant to bloom.
