The way the tender grass welcomes the hail, even though the returning sun will only find the air smeared green with the blood from her veins. Or the way the maple drops her last leaf, her bare arms numbed by the icy winter wind. Or perhaps the way the rain gathers her skirts to tumble down the rocks, her screams unheard in the frenzy of her descent.
Does pain recoil like a defanged cobra in the face of incontrovertible truth? Of inevitable charade? Does the heart forget its angst for just a moment, feeling the tingle of its jagged edges, knowing how it felt, once, just to be alive? Does going back to that day you left, take me to the moment when the rain broke through the maple’s shade and in the wet grass, your hand reached out for mine?
little by little
the mask of day loosens
its grip on the night