Brushback pitch

There are violets nestling close to the floor. There is the quiet hurrah of butter flies, a bobbing kaleidoscope. You have seen the frogspawns at the water’s edge and smelled the fresh cut grass. There are dogs on a leash. But all that won’t make it a spring yet.

Astride two gleaming steel rails and burdened sleepers, restrained, gurgling steam at a painted station, the engine waits. But it isn’t a train yet, until the whistle blows.

There are two momos in a plate and a table wedded to its chairs. Candles and stained damasks. Two pairs of hands. Hunger. But that doesn’t make it a dinner.

Which is why you shouldn’t kiss her, with just your mouth.