Damp on pavement. Droplets in grass. Reality enameled with dark quicksilver.
A girl with worn galoshes, raincoat full of faded flowers, stomps through the mud, green rising lush around her, forest on all sides.
Sheβs gone out into the world alone. Every rubbery step rings like a gunshot in her ears. Rain fills her eyes.
There is a playground here, abandoned for years, or perhaps drawn out of memories and set here to lure her.
The paint peels from the slide. The swings are rusty. The sandbox is a square of dull mud.
The days of dandelions are long ago. The days of laughing friends have ended.
In the sunlight, that sandbox would gleam with a thousand tiny diamonds. This whimsical, illusory wealth would call to her, fill her with breathless wonder.
Beneath this rain, the girl she was has drowned.
An older poem, written after my dad died. Life has a tendency to steal our innocence, and our happiness, and too often, we let it.