A tree has cracked the pavement’s moonsurface.
A constellation of planets.
I am always thinking of you.
When I was a child my father used to tell me I should peel my orange very carefully.
It would predict the outcome of my future.
Yesterday I found an orange peel on the pavement.
The peel formed a long orange ribbon showing its white inside on the edges of the skin.
The sliced skin still held the form of a juicy fruit.
Bright light encouraged its beauty.
It lay there in the middle of the street – as I admired it – like a fallen planet and I wondered who had sliced this beautiful peel.
My father said I should swing the orange peel over my head for a few times and then throw it far behind my back. The letter it would form as it hit the ground would be the name of the person I would marry.
It was an exciting game back then.
I am not married but I know now that orange peels do not form all the letters of the alphabet.
A hole next to my house is filled with a white substance
At night – although I rarely wander out while you are sleeping – the hole looks like a moon. The lamppost’s shadow creates a first quarter moon.