Something About That One Thing

by Riley Richards (Malone Univ.)


The thing about Washington (Bellingham, specifically) is that it is gray,

engulfed in a shroud of sorts,

of acedia,

of subdued excitement,

like my own nature of passivity,

indifference,

and at best, a sly insouciance -- I thought of the word

phlegmatic.


As long as I can remember, i have craved abudance,

a poeticism,

a fluttering abstraction,

that I literally crossed oceans to find--Luaksa and Istanbul and every airport in between.

My life,

I begged,

would be better,

fuller,

more wonder-striking than anything I could write.

Each experience changed me,

like a stormy Boardwalk stroll,

or climbing a tree for the very first time,

but life itself remained a thing with feathers,

elusive,

and not much more than a thing to be tolerated like a dead end job.

A hope dismissed.


Vagaries never used to phase me,

a state of being that my mother and I call being Australian

(which I was),

but then I walked into a desk,

shivering until my feet were colven,

because I smelled the

petrichor,

heard the sough's anthem through branches and

heavy hair tumbling over a shoulder,

and I recognized the sum of

every

beautiful

thing,

poetry personified in shimmying abundance, and

(my breath hitches)

a life worth living.


It isn't so much of a noticing of things newly perceived

or a thinking of things newly thought,

though there is no end to that

(the beauty of the tilted ground,

a discolored streetlight,

mood ring eyes)

but there is a new perspective,

llike I was seeing left instead of right,

Technicolor

drops of light,

as a heart that melts and fills

over and

over and

over and

always.