The web, intricate as a snowflake, held us in a stale state of acceptance. Reclined in plush, we watch lovers picnic, search for a four leaf, break the wishbone. I could linger in this silent cave, in this morning of anguished gray. I could allow the spell of despair to name each fear, shroud myself, fall to my knees and cower beneath the weight of them, but suddenly memory of an autumn day returns, when the sun tears through, and he is standing there, an island of light, like some god come to rewrite me. Honeysuckle grips the arbor, lifeless as the frame it clings to.
Sparrows huddle in uncommon silence.
Prairies, forests, each breeds its own species, even mud bottoms. Because nothing lasts forever, I do not weep for endings. Last spring newness erupted, I reveled in its presence, inhaled into my essence the fragrance of the bloom. Snowflakes escape their rhythmic prison, settle softly on my face, melt and mingle with a tear. Opened blinds replaced bold, laden drapes, chiseled ceramics softened.