Nobody knows why Tom collected only stamps with flowers on them. Perhaps he spent his final lucid days in his sunroom, penning letters to women who once courted him with their silence. When they spoke, their voices came in wispy penmanship, the ends of their S’s tucked meekly into the letters preceding them, like smooth legs folded under sheer camisole. Maybe he never wrote to anyone at all but simply mused over what it would feel like to gaze on, upward and unblinking like a sunflower and still get lost in the mail.
Tom’s collection was abundant but not exhaustive. Most notable was its lack of purple: no clusters of lilac, dizzying asters, fair-faced violets. The weeds, however, flourished, both dandelion the maned and dandelion the beheaded by wish or wind. He cherished his Japanese sets and referred to them affectionately as My Sakura, cherry blossom or otherwise. Nobody knows how Tom’s collection amassed. Some say he sifted fervently through discarded envelops. Others say he collected seashells until his ears betrayed him. Most say his collection sneaked up on him, feigned as a necessity.
I know it's been a while, but I am a recent college graduate who has too much free time between writing cover letters, perfecting my resume, and meeting with people for job training--you know, trying to make my sad fat self somewhat marketable. So yeah. Here's a prose-poem I wrote...last summer.
This is a very lovely piece. There's a beautiful wistfulness about the prose that is very nice to take in.
This has a very nostalgic and melancholy feel to it. It's a really beautiful piece, and you've said so much about Tom is so few words.
Great use of rhythm in language in this. Especially liked the line about the two dandelions. It rolled beautifully off the tongue.
I really liked this. The imagery really brought Tom to life for me.