Shana Krisiloff

 

Iterations

 

1)

Post-it notes with sticky lavender backs have a communist vibe that I canít quite understand when the sunflowers glow under the gray and black clouds it lead me to apple fields threatening the world with their twisted branches and Parisian street signs in the rain streaming into the moss covered Sein and the boats half sunk against the stars and rocking in the wind blown by Zeus urging the tide along to bring them home

 

2)

Post-it notes with sticky lavender back covered the shelves hiding the communist vibe of red bindings are markings on each square of paper I canít quite understand that feeling when the sunflowers in the fields outside glow under the gray and black clouds It lead me to red and brown apple fields plump threatening as the trees swayed with their twisted branches Parisian street signs in the bedroom the bathroom every room images of rain dripping into the moss-covered Sein and tug against boats drifting house glitters half sunk against the stars rocking in the wind blown by Zeus in rage watch leaves float by strength urging the tide of Fall along to bring them home.

 

3)

Post-it notes with sticky lavender back covered the shelves of her office, hiding the communist vibe of red bindings and black text. There are markings on each square of paper that I canít quite understand. Itís that feeling you get when the sunflowers in the fields outside our house glow under the gray and black clouds promising rain. Remember that time it rained in an arrow? It led me to red and brown apple fields, plump orifices contorting, threatening the world as the trees swayed with their twisted branches. Stiff, shining Parisian street signs line the walls of the bedroom, the bathroom, of every room reminding us of Cosette and Carton. Images glare from memory, of rain dripping in liquid ice into the glistening, moss-covered walls and through the years of cracks to the Sein. The ripples tug against the wooden hulls of the boats slowly drifting into the rose-colored dawn. Our house glitters on the hill there, half sunk against the stars, stories inscribed in reflection on the glass roof. The mailbox, rocking in the wind, spreadís its wings and flies into the dark abyss; as if blown by Zeus in a fit of ungodly rage. We watch the leaves from the apple trees float by in the Olympian gusts, unknown strength urging the tide of Fall along to bring the foliage to the ground; to bring them home.

 

4)

Post-it notes with sticky lavender backs were her specialty. They covered the shelves of her office, hiding the communist vibe of red bindings and black text. There are markings on each square of paper Ė circles, lines, flower petals in black and blue - markings that I canít quite understand. When you walk into the room and see the patterns circulating in purple passages, you feel it.† Itís that feeling you get when the sunflowers in the fields outside our house glow under the gray and black clouds promising rain; a secret in the air that hovers and refuses to relent. We love that feeling, you and I, and we chase it when the shadows cross over the threshold of the living room and creep in between the folds of the duvet. Remember that time it rained in an arrow? It led me to the red and brown apple fields where you were hanging from the gnarled branches, plump orifices contorting and threatening the world as the trees swayed. You came down to hold me under the creaking apple trees with their twisted branches. In our minds, we can always see those stiff, shining Parisian street signs lining the walls of the bedroom, the bathroom, of every room reminding us of Cosette and Carton; of Marius and Lucy. Images glare from memory: of rain dripping in liquid ice into the glistening, moss-covered walls, and proceeding to slither through the years of cracks down into to the Sein. The ripples tug against the wooden hulls of the boats we rode in contented silence, slowly drifting into the rose-colored dawn. The same down rises behind our house as it glitters on the hill there, half sunk against the stars, stories inscribed in reflection on the glass roof. Our mailbox, rocking in the wind, spreads its wings and flies into the dark abyss; as if blown by Zeus in a fit of ungodly rage. We donít chase it Ė it is something we donít need, connection to the outside world Ė the world beyond the shadows and the apple trees. We watch the leaves from the apple trees float by in the Olympian gusts, unknown strength urging the tide of Fall along to bring the foliage to the ground in heaps of burnt and brown; to bring them home to us and the closed screen door of our porch.