In The Circle
The smell of rain on leaves. The sound of spring unravelling. The taste of sunrise. The touch of hope. My lover will be here soon.
There is no mistaking the sounds of the storm in the forest, as the rain scatters through the trees like a green and impossibly complex helter-skelter ride, splashing from branch to branch and twig to twig, falling in unpredictable patterns as the boughs intertwine in the canopy far above. The drips fall ahead, and the rain is behind, but in the circle nothing falls unless I reach out and touch the shower.
The wind flows through the trees like a crowd though a concert gate, ebbing into spaces, flowing through gaps. Expectant and excited, it explores every corner of every path, picking up leaves to drop them with disinterest shortly after. The forest forms no natural wind-break, yet here the circle is as still as a millpond, as still as rage, as calm as murder.
On the other side of the flowers is the rain, the wind. I can see the drops bounce off petals, watch them flutter in zephyr as their perfect circle forms an equally perfect barrier from the world.
On the other side of the flowers are my possessions, that which warmed me, that which owned me. I need neither here, nor shall I until I return. Should I return.
Here the sun breaks through unseen, the wind calms to still, the rain ceases. I can feel summer on my limbs and winter in the depths, as I taste the smell of rain and feel the hope of sunrise.
My heartbeat speeds
My lover will be here soon.
August 7, 2017