For Rosemary

Somethings about the way of transit. A movement of the car, in contained a body. A person. One soul pushing forth, through, from one scene finished, on to the next. On to hours spent, shifted pathways, and interactions among others. Small movements of parts of parties, some of which, in certain locations, triggered by certain sections in brains, produce speech, audible sounds which, when understood, facilitate an understanding between the two; this body, once in the car, combines once out, one entered in the shop, with another body, just in, and entered the same, particular shop. A conversation, however brief, ensues. Often. A delicate moment shared between two persons. A connection established; to be held, had, experienced, and let go; with open possibilities and conclusions to be drawn, an interaction, surely present in the rawest self. A potential with any type of consideration of anything which might foster and grow–or perhaps be experienced, and die, only not in memory, held there, in some way or other, truly forever.

Something about a moment in transit. A special moment, held in hand, head, and/or heart. A few moments, that is, around seven or so. If each moment is a time which draws on. Defined by a word put to, a word which tries to capture a truly fleeting essence. A word in this part which desires change. Along with its person who wants it, is changing, has changed, as well. A drawn out, arduous process, a word which both, just, want to be drawn in. Marked on paper, cemented, engraved on a metaphorical stone, held in a physically constructed metaphorical building in which things are thought to (, or are trying to be convinced that they, too, hold all these things together, forever) really exist. A precious drive, that is.

A thing about this drive–always. Held in the air. In the waves. Through the voices put on, projected, and the words coming through. A space in flux, its trajectory and position constantly changing, at least in this mode. The whole of the world, beings all collapsed. Connect. Alone no more. Surrounded by voices which emit into this protected space, the calming voices, those who pause a (that) feeling, shift it so one is not alone. And embody a space of shared thoughts, insights, things to be imagined. An understanding of an understanding. Briefly. To accompany, during, this time, this space. A word that gives a person meaning. Its static. No, no room for growth. Growth. Truly necessary. That, that which can’t be contained, can’t be held, must move on and through. And understood as it is, not for what it was. Through, on the eve of a step forth. A feeling spread evenly, through a body, dissected in parts ((the feeling) perhaps). A confirmation, a slight celebration ((or more) perhaps).

The body which left the car, and approached the building, and there, on the ground–sprigs of Rosemary grew.