The Poetry: From Chapter 3: Winter's quiet on spring's debut, flakes of snow continued to fall. Whorls of white dust formed in the wake of his truck as he drove up the hill. Laden with powder, pine branches leaned onto his path. Mark felt at play on a carpet of white, driving on untracked snow. The muted sounds of the tires echoed the truck's glide and, at each turn of the road, he let the wheels slide, as if to a waltz. He watched the rear of his truck skirt snow banks to either side. From Chapter 7: Emilia swayed gently to "When I fall in love" by Rick Astley, and pressed her body to his. Mark felt the moisture of her hand when it slipped away to embrace him. She rested her head in the cradle of his shoulder. Silk, he imagined, was no softer than the feel of her hair on his cheek. Caterpillars spin into a shelter of delicate fibers, and dance in circles of an impassioned universe. Closed eyes see desire; in these shadows is a different world. They are the earth and the moon, intertwined in an embrace. From Chapter 14: The interlaced fibers of a spider's snare were tethered to his hiking boots. Desiccated insects decayed in its trap. A butterfly wing jutted from it, a still life of flight. Spiders spin their webs in man's indifference. |
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