- Books, Literature, and Writing
A symphony of beats
no strings, no brass
just subtle drops
Making their way from
the eaves to the ground
Where will they go
when they leave me?
When the last tap of their
liquid wisdom is gone?
Will they come back?
So who then will sing me this song?
We ran from the lake, drenched to the bone; water running down our faces and dripping off our finger tips. You gave me your jacket and laughed as I stretched my arms to see how far they would reach in the long blue sleeves.
The rain became a song as we entered the woods, and I gave up on the coat. For the first time I listened to that organic symphony, finding its song as you made each note distinct; pointing out the flat beat of maple leaves and the soft plop of the mud, the patter of the stones and whisper of the birches; we danced, sopping, smiling, slipping on pine needles and fallen leaves. Hands cold, faces warm with laughing.
As we walked back the rain stopped for a moment, so we did too. Standing staring at the sky as it revealed a soft wisp of cerulean blue. You said nothing, but as you stared intently at that patch of blue I knew you wouldn't stay. I was a just a day, a memory made and forgotten.
Suddenly I wanted it to end, for that lazy music to fall like sweet sleep on the day. So I ran, hoping you wouldn't follow. Perhaps you knew it was my way of letting go, granting freedom from a life you should never be forced to know. Or maybe you just never gave it a thought.
When you caught up with me, we said nothing. I gave back the coat and stood alone, alone in the rain, as your tail lights faded into the summer mist.
The rain has become my touchstone now, with each storm my internal clock turns upside down, like an hourglass reset. The dark clouds and slanting rain making it impossible to tell how long has past or what is coming.
Outside the lake wrinkles in silky silver folds, only the dark grey silhouette of the far shore and the pure white line of mist that runs before it are clear. My eyes close themselves; all this water weighing them down with its constant erosive beat. A beat I find myself keeping, a silent metronome of a dripping orchestra.
The roof keeps time with me, each tinny syllable like a gentle tap of a cymbal. The leaves the steady thump of the brass and the old dead trees the bass drums.
With a dismissive wave I disregard the wind section completely, they've never been my favorite anyway, and relegate the howling gusts and drifts to the sweeping sounds of the strings.
As the storm lulls I draw my breath in anticipation and taking undeserved responsibility for this massive symphony I give a solemn nod to my invisible players to take as long as they like between movements; allow the audience to savor the last and dream of the next.
In these moments I know the truth; that I lost you before I met you. Maybe no one ever really found you; I think you preferred it that way. No strings, nothing to keep you down when you could be there; flying above it all, infinitely free.
© 2013 brownella