Deep in the woods I stood that night, the light of the moon casting her living, moving shadows upon the ground while the treetops swayed to the leadings of the warm wind, together playing their mesmerizing song, like the sound of whispered secrets, like the magic and the secret wonder of the mystery of her and me when we were not so old, when so much was said with not a spoken word.
And there I stood in my mind, young again, alive with the desire that had drawn me out to the woods that night. The desire for her presence. Sadly now, a desire for the memory of her presence; a fragment of my fragmented mind. But this fragment had grown to greater than ghostly proportions; a tangible essence; an irresistible force of compelling nature, silently calling me, pulling me from the grasp of the reality of this fleeting existence of mine; some offer of hope in this terminal course.
But I knew the truth. Winter comes--was already here. No more spring magic. No more wonder. All is known and past. The table has been cleared, and the dishes put away . . . forever. She is gone.
Disillusioned, I no longer cared to stand. So I laid myself down among the trunks of the faithful trees, and there I slept. And in my sleep I dreamed a dream in which she lived. And when I awoke, the sun was screaming about reality, and reality would not be denied. The moon was gone. The wind, like her presence, had also died. And I was cold. And I could hear my old lonely self calling me from some unknown place in the back of my tormented mind; calling me back home. And it saddened me to no end because I could not remember where or when I had last seen myself truly.
And there I stood in my mind, young again, alive with the desire that had drawn me out to the woods that night. The desire for her presence. Sadly now, a desire for the memory of her presence; a fragment of my fragmented mind. But this fragment had grown to greater than ghostly proportions; a tangible essence; an irresistible force of compelling nature, silently calling me, pulling me from the grasp of the reality of this fleeting existence of mine; some offer of hope in this terminal course.
But I knew the truth. Winter comes--was already here. No more spring magic. No more wonder. All is known and past. The table has been cleared, and the dishes put away . . . forever. She is gone.
Disillusioned, I no longer cared to stand. So I laid myself down among the trunks of the faithful trees, and there I slept. And in my sleep I dreamed a dream in which she lived. And when I awoke, the sun was screaming about reality, and reality would not be denied. The moon was gone. The wind, like her presence, had also died. And I was cold. And I could hear my old lonely self calling me from some unknown place in the back of my tormented mind; calling me back home. And it saddened me to no end because I could not remember where or when I had last seen myself truly.
