Trafika Europe 12 - French Bon-Bons
Knocking down cherries, the Spanish kind (yellow, orange, sometimes pink or white), the broken branches tumbling from above with leaves and fruit. On the lawn a trove. The big leaves leathery. Again you met your goal. The cherries bursting from too much juice, attacked by starlings. A year will pass before again they ripen and you can run from the house at dawn across the grass between the flower beds (quiet since someone’s dying in the parlor) and like some prowling beast, head for the cherries. Like a vegetarian mink. Or stealthy cat. Nothing from this scene can be preserved. Despite brave tries: a splash of bracing water, mouth to mouth on silent lungs, the cut tree jolted with current. Despite casual rehearsals or ones in full dress. Despite projections of slides. That frame remains blurry, indistinct. Some lichen, time, has intervened and won’t let go. The tree in sun, limbs swaying through thick leaves, is like a blueprint for happiness (title: Delights of Childhood, Series C4A8 ), which never stirs. As if not yours.
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