In the wind, warmer now summer days aren’t far beyond the month’s approaching close, in the wind she hears a whisper, words of a wisdom once sought long ago in the luxuriously drawn out days of her childhood – so innocent, so free to play, to think; to feel and to believe.  The wind encases her in memory, of a time when the not knowing permitted knowledge outside the bounds of reason, of unending rules and facts.

Her face full tilted to the wind now, enraptured by its raspy tale, her skin brushed by breathy hands of history – unseen, caressing lines (ravages of time) too seen, or so she laments every passing day upon sight of a visage grown less and less familiar to eyes which lately hint at weeping for dreams long-buried in broken hopes – her skin touched with this airy melancholy, she muses on that wild stance she had, belonging only to youth’s naivety; its brash outspokenness, and lingering faith in magic.

Yes, magic: that indefinable stroke of chance that every so often touches the blessed few, lifts them up beyond the heavy weight of the quotidian, buoys them with invisible wings from lamentable trudge, and sparks joy back into the everyday, running rampant for a mere, mad second of unleashed spiritual wildfire.  In childhood, such energy is plentiful; as one matures – so she ponders now, skin as dry as the wintry branches of the woods surrounding, bare bark clacking and scraping together like her very joints, so sore from temporal decay and the accident – as the years pass, that magic ebbs, like a once fiercely wild river burned dry by a more powerful, more sadistic and unrelenting, scorching sun.

A desert she is in, though her hemisphere be located north.  Even her tears are fewer now, rain from heavens instead crying for her, wetting her papery skin.  She is empty; a husk, a shell of the woman she had once held so much promise of becoming.  She is undone.

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