punctuated by wonder - by Spencer Chang

Last night, M asked me about rose, thorn, bud about my time in New York this time around as it comes to an end. My natural expectation for a rose is something big, meaningful, big announcement and showers of confetti, so it was surprisingly wonderful to observe myself go towards the smallest things: a timeline of smiles, an army of carriage drivers hustling for rides after a show, playground fountains like secret geysers, the moon in all her sizes peeking out above the trees, rising like a star over Brooklyn Museum, a ring of statues of old, famed philosophers along the roof casting long shadows.

Last night, M asked me about rose, thorn, bud about my time in New York this time around as it comes to an end. My natural expectation for a rose is something big, meaningful, big announcement and showers of confetti, so it was surprisingly wonderful to observe myself go towards the smallest things: a timeline of smiles, an army of carriage drivers hustling for rides after a show, playground fountains like secret geysers, the moon in all her sizes peeking out above the trees, rising like a star over Brooklyn Museum, a ring of statues of old, famed philosophers along the roof casting long shado