Reverie Pond – Part 1

She pushed the reeds to the side just before hopping over the puddle. The clouds above formed a barricade around her distant friend, the Sun, yet his warmth failed her not. It had been 143 days since she had last escaped the confinement of monotony and made it out here. Reverie Pond is what the locals called it as opposed to its undeserved nickname given by the outsiders. (I dare not mention that name; for if you knew firsthand the truth about something or someone and heard wretched rumors and malicious gossip spreading in contradiction, would you allow those falsities the privilege of repetition?) Hearsay had constructed fear of what lay hidden in the water, and so the unfortunate refused to venture past the outskirts of the city. Concrete and asphalt led them to the border but never beyond where the pavement met the gravel.

But she didn’t mind the solitude. Not in the least.

Red rubber flip flops dangled from her fingers. Another small puddle neared but this time she maintained her steady gait and welcomed her feet to the cool mud. The landscape around her had seasoned itself with Spring. Trees extended their arms to leaves once again. An uncaged breeze danced around her, through her, carrying the scent of her favorite bouquet. In the distance, an adjoining field had apparently hung its heavy brown overcoat, grabbing the lightweight green jacket instead in an obvious and appropriate response to warmer weather.

She was the honored guest of all things lovely.

Two steps past the puddle and she stood still and listened quizzically. It was almost unnoticeable but Nature’s heartbeat had gently strengthened from when she had first stepped out of the car an hour and a half before. Yes, she confirmed after a second examination, in fact it had.

hopeful

she is at winter’s mercy. a fool nonetheless. caught in the season of bitterness, lifelessness, and hopelessness, the snow deserts stretch the length of her heart. what lies beneath is only dormant. a light and steady pulse faithfully remains undetected by the grieving eye. she is blistered by winds, numbed by cold, with bones aching for warm light, warm blood. here she is again, crying. icicles on her cheeks and puffs of icy air convince her she is still alive. wake the sleeping heartbeat. decrescendo – winter. crescendo – spring. in a chorus of vitality the season erupts. green blankets and tree limbs speckled with pinks, purples, and ivory. grey eyes turn blue as the clouds part. she walks upright again, her wintry blanket folded in the back of her trunk for another day, another time, another place, another season. not now, for now is spring.