It was on a Tuesday— empty-handed tree branches cringing beneath the heaviness of a premature spring wind, and trying (failing) to sprout fistfuls of leaf-paper poetry—proof to the world (and to themselves) of something to say.
It was the season of in-between and she was a letter scrawled by rememberings (and regrets), unread and tucked into the envelope of an apathetic world. A girl (a woman) left to linger and to steep in tea cups full of the steaming winter and of loneliness.
And she walked through leftover currents of wilted autumn leaves, now crumpled and disposed onto the floor of a wintery Tuesday like (insufficient) pages, never to be read. They lifted in the breeze to watch her and without really wanting to, she understood.
For she was cringing, too, beneath the (too-bright) light of a February sun that demanded competence. She searched for it with frantic hands and found only fistfuls of afraid and pockets full of words collected on heart-floors like wilted autumn leaves.