When, in my notes, I write an aside to myself, to remind
or lament, and to, eventually, be deleted, I do it in the shade
of purple that I feel closest to that season.
A dark, little bird crosses over the canal, and tips her head
down towards the water, and catches, briefly, the blur
of the brighter, purple accents of her belly’s plummage.
Is it ok for me to write on a day like this, when
I am pretty numb to the depth of the greens presented to me,
by the canal… Ah, I can stop; I can just get off the bicycle.
I see, I was leaning on you like a little tree towards light,
and now I’m learning a new interpretation:
the shaded half grew faster.