spring frost

It's windy. The light blooms covering the trees like mist. The hairy moss sways from the branches of newly budding oaks to the rhythm of the breeze. I feel strange. Dehydrated. I feel disappointed. Dissatisfied. Everything is artificial. Just two days ago I defended the position that everything is natural, that there is no such thing as synthetic. But right now, everything seems that way. The sheets of cotton light, the licking chill of the wind, and the distant smell of burning leaves is all illusion. In front of me, the canvas of a table umbrella painfully flaps like the head of a swimming jellyfish. It wants to be free of its metal skeleton and drift in the sky. I want to go with it.