Droplets, gentle as dancers’ steps
fill the wide-eyed windows of our home.
The garden now wilts and runs together in a color bath.
I am ready for my stroll.
You won't come with me; I haven't asked.
Misted with fog I am cloaked by weightless velvet.
The door feels awkward against the sweet spring.
My leather sole greets the glistening pavement,
they will walk together.
Cool singularity resonates as the gate falls shut.
My breath is causing the only stir on this muted path.
It no longer comes naturally.
I begin to feel as though if I stop trying so might it.
The parallels of my progression
once clearly marked my intended destination
reflecting back its driving glow.
Presently I can hardly make out the way, though prescribed.
My steps, once light and precise, turn slippery and nervous.
My hair clings to my face and shoulders, we are alone.
Throbbing almost masks the initial impact
so powerful and consuming.
But the weight of myself presses on, out.
I never could imagine my roamings' end.
Knowing it when I saw it was my last surprise.
My eyes are closed, as the roses shower.
- eva, 2002
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