Sunday

Singapore Sling



Up and out the window yellow brushes of gold are gathering in the poplar.  For these the tree was named, by these the tree is known to those of us behind the glass reading a long, complicated history of geographical society's survey of the deciduous.

There is something of the tropics in these flowers.  Something perched on the top edge of a glass filled with a cocktail typically served only in a grass thatched hut by the sea, a reflection of Cole Porter's tuxedo still lingering in a window of the adjacent resort.  Reflection of vast legions of dread-locked dancers have more recently moved into the glass and are also caught and held.

The infinitely slow movement of glass is said to never stop. Plenty of room in the infinitesimal for tulip poplars, me, the beat beat beat of the tomtom, Bob Marley, the sea, the mountain, a blue sky, the whiteness of clouds and you in your chair by the window.



One Love.