The Duck and Ivy

The duck would fly wherever it pleased, but it flew in circles around the pond. Maybe this was her destination and she had finally arrived. Maybe I am the most fortunate one, where I reside lives beauty, peace, and bliss. Maybe the duck has yearned to fly in the style, over the clovers that sleep next to the pond since he hatched out of an egg from a far away place. But could that be? That duck seemed like a New Yorker, to me, but maybe the duck like me cause she flew here around three. It was never this warm in the month of April in the city, though concerned, feeling truly blessed. I beam, in my dreams. I’m running from creatures. I am who I am.

If you could be in love with me, I don’t see how it couldn’t be. What was the point of painting anything when what was there was gorgeous. A white crane sitting in the shade of the pond. You’re far too bright to shine, what vison was that bird? In her majesty. Is life about adding or taking from the balls that we juggle? Like the thoughts we pass up towards and between each other.

“Maybe, should, would, could”- all terrible words. Of what substance do I sense my own sensible personhood? Perhaps I exists in the absurdities rather than practicalities. How are dreams not real when they are made up of what I swallowed?

Find me as a piece of ivy. I grow with the sun and extend a new part of myself from what once was new. Not knowing where I begin or end. Producing thorns, fuzz, and roses. Observing the character of the dragonflies and beetles that roam above and between me. Ay, I’m Ivy. A shade of envious greedy green.