Hyun Jung Jun & Cody Tumblin, 2021
The clouds pass busily overhead, they seem to be in a hurry to get somewhere. Headed toward the horizon maybe. Another night, another day. The seasons come and go. I’ve spent a lot of time at my window recently, my private box seat from where I watch the world pass by. How long have we been here, how many days have gone by, will the scenery change, does this snow ever melt? There’s a certain ache in my bones. The kind of ache that longs for-that dreams for the bright green buds of spring. Sprouting up from the ground, reaching toward the heavens, unfurling their long sleepy arms in hopes to embrace the warm orange sun above.The silken petals of tulips, crocuses, forsythias, pansies,and violas will be wet with dew, their blossoms outstretched-probably opening for the first time with a sigh of relief. A sigh they have held in all winter long. All that uncertainty in the soil, it had to go somewhere. I guess it can only go upward until the wind grabs hold and carries it off. Eventually, there isn’t much left. If there is anything, it falls apart and keeps floating up, finding its way back to the clouds again, passing busily overhead. They seem to be in a hurry to get somewhere. Headed toward the horizon maybe.
