I looked for blackberries today. But the drought has shriveled the fruit.
So I return to my desk to sit before my laptop. Bitten apple, Pandora’s box — why is it always a woman? Costumed, cursed, cast into dramatic extremes of virtue or villain. We are just people, flesh and blood and suffering. While muscled egos wrestled above her, Pandora, like Eve, grew bored with her confinement, chafed by imposed limitations, curious as Galileo.
All the woes of the world are blamed on her. I only shoulder fault for a small piece of it.
Partake of the apple; lift the lid. Release knowledge, perception, but also fear and madness, anger and death. Rule Thirty-four, and that which has been seen cannot be unseen.
The wraiths of woe liberated by Pandora slipped away like poisonous mists. Hope remained behind, small and bright. It is Hope that I see fluttering away. The rest settles, heavy as mud, caking on my fingers, weighing down my feet.
Thistle down, lifted by the breeze, prismed by the morning sun — others shall catch it and save the world.