Boudica, 37

wondering thro Today is the day, today, one day. I am the day. One, that is. Today we live, and today, when the dawn comes, when the sky falls, when the leaves turn yellow, brown, and gray, in that single moment, single, fleeting instant, you and I, we die. Today, today is the day, and I am the day. You, though, are the morning. You wake, and you bring me back my day, my stillness, my sun-rays, glossing over the skin of my cheeks, the skin that is waiting for. Today, I tell you, and the morning comes, uncalled for, unannounced. Linger, linger a minute, linger a second, linger an hour, morning, warrior, warrior of the still-to-come Sun. Linger, in peace, and in quiet. In this serenity. I don't go, I have not gone, will not go, where you cannot follow. Can't you see me? Do you not see me? Gray, gray, all is misty, misty gray. You are, your skin is, and now, we stand still. I lift my hand, a fragile insistence begging, craving, for a release, for a language, a language of unspoken possible oneness.

Perhaps I should tell you a story, a story of a girl who lived in a forest. She wondered, wondered in this forest, bare, bare footed. She loved the feel of earth, of grass, of leaves, caressing her bare feet. She loved the smell of the morning, of the oaks, of dusty scents brought by the eastern wind. She loved the melody of the early birds' songs, clear, transcendent, harmonious. She was one, in the morning light.