Perspective is everything. A little seasonal shift alters moods, sways perceptions, gently nudges the very reality around us.
This includes our friend the pothole. Because two images of a particular road crater just hours apart afford the viewer entirely divergent experiences -- and because there ought to be more poems about potholes -- I am moved to create verse.
In the first image, spring precipitation collects in this masterpiece of decay from 44th and Wentworth. The resultant reflection fuses nature (the water, the overlooking pine) with that most urban of creations, broken asphalt.
To capture the totality of its existential pothole-ness, we turn to the haiku form. The ancient Asian art celebrates human interactions with nature: mountain hikes, drinking fermented grapes, and now, looking at potholes.
The crack collects rain, sheltering a tree's image. In leaps Basho's frog.
I'm all deep and shit. No, wait, it's the pothole that's deep.
With a bit of afternoon heat, Kingfield's tiny lake evaporated. Absent the April showers that promise May flowers, the hole was a bit more stark.
From limpid pool to barren gash in 120 minutes or so. The latter image is less about human-environment interaction and more about a gaping trench in my neighborhood. Hence, the haiku looks more like this:
Hey, it's spring -- bump! Hiss! Oh, son-of-a-goddamn bitch, time to change that tire.
If the spirit moves you, leave your own haiku efforts in the comments.