I was that naïve, young girl walking
under the dim illumination of the sun
waking in a candy-coated sky; leaves
fading, turning ashen-- a light-weight
jacket, crooked glasses, over-sized
denim jeans seeming to drag against
the ground. The dulled colors of once
vibrant foliage, the remembrance of
summer's blush upon the pale cheek
of the passing year, swaying in time to
blustery beats as if a dance. I had
noticed, of course, that the wilting
remnants of buried flowers past their
prime, stems trembling fragile as a
butterfly's wing, resembled the blank
look of a corpse laying static in a
wooden grave, but I was not letting
my thoughts go there. Instead, I was
watching the placid ripples in a nearby
pond with a promise of healing.
Yes, That Was I.
And that was I, the self-conscious girl
you saw midday in the garden of
wintery decay as you crossed the
dreary oak bridge that shadowed a
small creek of koi, huddled under the
sulking tendrils of a willow, head on
knees, hair covering my windswept
face as I watched a spotted leaf lose
grip on its host, sustenance, life-giver,
falling as if a soldier unknown by human perception. To think that such
minuscule events, no more than the
blink of a crystalline eye or the quiver
of a caterpillar in cocoon, have no
importance among the hustle of a
fast-paced life. Imagination surrendering to uniformity.
Yes, That Was I.
And that was I you glanced at with
demeaning pity as wispy clouds were
turned to embers in a fire-born sky, last
rays of light pulling a dark cloak of
indigo down to the horizon, near a
petrified adorned, shoulders heaving
as if recalling some tragic event of the
past. A helpless girl, you saw, there to
wallow in sorrows of a lost love, to find their soul amongst the blossoms, but that was not so. Instead, I had observed
a small, armored bug that happened to climb into my palm, its feelers as laughter escaped in a muffled tone.
Yes, That Was I.
