Park bench

This is a nice spot, this here bench,
a nice spot to look at the world go by.
That is, partly, why I am here.

First listen, listen to the leaves:
they crackle like fire, exploding into
yellow-red-gold flames! They go forth,
licking the pure air, riding it
violently, vivid, vibrant
sparks, before they
kiss the sweet earth.
They die in beauty.

Then contrast that with this image. These
brown figures, clutching their
brown hats, hugging their
brown cloaks around them.
Browner than this earth, they go forth,
hurrying and scurrying, to their
deaths.
I wonder if they know
where they are going?

They sure look like it.
Look at their purposeful grimaces,
frowning at the brownness about and
in them. They must rush!
Somewhere on the circumference of this circle they trace
an appointment awaits!

And so they go,
step after step after step after
step, until finally, they have
ground themselves to the ground,
leaving nothing but wrinkles where once were
feet. These are the old
circles of life.

They are a blur to me, as I am sure
they are to themselves.
I forget, they do not have the time
to count how many bits of golden magic
have fallen about their heels. They count
another sort of gold, as cold and as hard
as their hearts.

Now listen again, listen to the trees:
they cry at the wind, the wind which wipes away their
yellow-red-gold tears! They weep,
they weep magic to the skies and to
the earth. They weep in fading beauty,
for us.

Then compare them with this picture. This
old lady, who sits, with a silent shudder, on
this here bench. Peer through her paper-thin
skin, dappled with age, and remember that
it was on this bench her crinkled lips
parted, that she then murmured this:

“I waited all my life to die, to die
because I lived. I lived to die.”

There were no tears.
I turned, before she went forth
forever, and smiled,
“Don’t we all?”

bubble dreams.

He stood small and unprotected,
embracing the only thing that was on his mind
and in his hands. He thought perhaps
his frail stature could somehow shield this
fragile globe of utter beauty from harsh
realities, for someone once said that
love could do the impossible.

And he loved it, this wet sphere of sheer
perfection; he loved it with all the
love his little heart could muster. His heart was
petite, but it had space for this creation, since
after all, purity enjoys company.
This orb made him complete.

He loved it because it came from him.
He had fashioned it from the
simplest of materials; gave birth to it with the
most primitive of tools, but this wonder he
concocted was far, far more profound
than anyone could ever understand. His
inexperienced mind could hardly grasp it, but in some
vague manner he knew it was his, thus
he loved it, and that was that.

It was his responsibility, his
calling, and momentarily the point of his
existence. He had fended off the hungry
wind for it, had fought the burning
sun, had brought it the moon and the
stars. And in return, it gave him the sparkling
rainbow, and more importantly, it showed him
himself. He smiled.
It was time.

He had questioned, incessantly, the
whens, and the whethers. The answer lay somewhere
deep within, and now it surfaced, tearing him
to shreds. He desperately desired to hold this marvel, to
be its haven forever. But the call
can not, must not, go unanswered.
For it, for once, he must weather the inner storm.

And so,
He stood small and unprotected,
Embracing the only thing that was on his mind
and in his hands. With the gentlest of touches,
with infinitesimal strength, he lets go.
It lingers, clutching on for a few

eternities,

then flies, soaring to reach that boundless
height of its destiny
alone. No, not alone, for it carried his
love, his entirety.

It happened too quickly for his tears to find
his youthful cheek. He faltered when they did,
then blinked them away. His twirling magic,
his dazzling son of the skies had left him
this, a dull, hazy ache. He thought perhaps
this pain so detached was merely rushed
pride, a reminder of his rendezvous with
love, which was but a minute’s dream, oh yes, just a
dream, that felt like it took all his life
away.

But he was glad he chose this dream, and
let it go, since
after all, even purity has a shelf life.
Past that, and dreams could explode
with a whisper into nightmarish nihility,
and both would fall, blind, into permanent
dizzying darkness. The sting of
goodbyes is nothing, next to the
fear of forgetting helloes.

Can you hear that soft whisk of freedom?
One day it will shun immortality to
return.