It’s the easiest way to compose a poem, he tells me.
I don’t believe him, but I nod in what I hope is a thoughtful-looking way as he throws the letters up into the air. I make a silent mental note that he used the word compose and not write.
We both watch as the letters cascade to the ground in random patterns: a W overlapping an R, a zig-zag that could be a Z or a sideways N.
An O joins an M for a momentary meditation before they separate again.
Once the letters settle they’re all nonsense and I can’t find any proper words.
I try to tell him that I’m still not sure I understand how it’s supposed to work but he shushes me, already scribbling in his notebook.
I stare at the pile of letters, searching for words though there aren’t nearly enough vowels.
There’s a B next to an R with a Y that reminds me of a girl I once knew named Briony who laced her shoes backwards with the bows near the toes.
And now I think I get it.
About flax-golden tales . Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.
No comments have been added yet.