Blue Bag may not be a bag at all,
Blue Bag might be a kite,
A kite that got stuck,
And left in the branches I see.
The storm un-tangled
The mind de-mangled
A kite who’s journey stopped short.
The wind is picking up again
Storm clouds hover again.
But soon they fly off,
Leaving Blue Kite still aloft –
At home in the branches I see.
Thinking on times it flew
Remembering the times it flew.
The Club is out today … my review of this compelling and disturbing film is over at Flickering Myth.
Sometimes, when I take a pause for thought, I will notice the outside world.
For example, there is a tree located in one of the backyards of the buildings two or three doors down from me. Through my window door I can see that tree. And in that tree there is a blue plastic bag.
Blue Bag has been there ever since I moved back in – over a year ago now.
Blue Bag seems to be firmly stuck; it has survived thunderstorms, hailstorms and rainstorms comfortably and easily. It has braved occasional attacks from pigeons and gulls with smile firmly fixed.
Blue Bag does not ask questions.
Blue Bag just sways in the breeze, hanging on to the branches, surveying the scenery.
I wonder where Blue Bag will be another year from now.
Still in the tree, or down on the ground?