Stephen R. Covey
Pale blue world
We’re shedding the sleeves of what wasn’t a winter and no daffodils are eyeing to bloom. We’re the smell of the entrance of any B&Q, the wander down paint and it wasn’t a winter, and magnolias are grainy and squat and perturbed. We’re inside the sleeves of the tights of the girl who swaps the entrance of B&Q for her freedom on fridays and knows what was winter and knows dresses to raise all the daffodils white. Crumbling knees make the sound of the texts we frantically spill in our eyes when the cling of what winter should’ve been or become comes knocking before blabble returns.
And blabble returns. And it coaxes your weeds and tunnels through snows and it plasters over your parents’ faces in photo albums. We’re lost in the lee of the blue eyes white dragon, trailing wings of its rumours winging reasons for sleeves that are shorter to wander and wonder what was winter.
day three of owning some daffodils. the daffodils today had a big day out. they survived a cycle to uni, being left in the art society’s studio for most of the day, and then being drawn/pastelled by multiple people. about 6 have bloomed. these are truly the heydays of daffodils ownership.