It was summertime, and the trees seemed to bow to the glistening sun,
welcoming her to the earth, her rays like a balm to the hardened soil.
Everyone was running; we leapt to follow her on her journey,
diaphanous floats bearing the weight of our innocence.
Tugging on her hand (how childlike, incessant) but only a laugh burst from her lips,
flooding our ears, flushing our cheeks.
Her goals; beyond our understanding. For how could a love so pure
not grow roots and sparkle evermore? Who would writhe beneath the whip
of loss, day after day? Sticks clutched in grubby fingers, outlines of a lasso
that would steal her majesty from her mighty perch. Yet greedy–
rapacious, overeager faces reserve no right to radiance, those precious tendrils.
And so higher and higher she climbed, until a mere speck of her once
flooding blaze remained in the sky: murky, as if the world's eye had squeezed shut.
No basking glow, we dropped our cheeks to the ground, greedy and gracious alike.
Only when the stick drawings were abandoned, smoothed over by walking feet,
did her loveliness return. Walking feet turned to running, and soon
shouts rang out: back, back, cheeks warm, smiles wide–back!
Merlot, Rhiannon
