At one time, I walked with you through white barked forests. and hand in hand I found that a quiet stillness held my breath in my chest. a calm quiet. a sacred quiet.
The leaves upon the trees were shifting and shimmering a turquoise blue and green liquid-ocean canopy, such that reaching out I held such beauty.
Fingertips, caressing smooth, white bark, and then a shudder-shiver as the leaves revealed themselves a twittering cacophony, which in a single breath out, took flight with brush of wing.
And some words spoken softly, knowingly, at a kitchen table in a home bereft of embraces, held such a beauty that all other truths had been forcibly forgottenβ for beauty, in itself, is a truth.
And now in an empty room of windows, a chair sits at a kitchen table facing a white barked forest. The linoleum floor is barely wornβa thick residue coats chilled air.
No patter of feet across this floor, no laughter, no tears. And in an empty room of windows, one pane is fogged Facing, the white barked forest