Back and Forth.
Brendan McAuley
through the window the verdant old hill
protrudes familiarly up over the horizon.
she sits in an unfinished wooden rocking chair.
it creaks with every movement:
back and forth and back and forth and back and forth and
i remember, she says, when i was a flower
on the side of that hill
clouds amble about the midday sky.
this, it seems is life.
her gaze falls upon the hill as she rocks.
silently, it begins to rain—
each drop is unnoticeable and blurry at first,
like the foreground of a faded photograph when
then focus is on some distant thing.
a tear shaped time capsule splashes on the window pane.
she becomes aware of the rain
and turns away.
eyes closed and sitting still now,
rain falling against the black of her eyelids,
each lonely drop becomes a note
from some familiar
song dew sliding down and off a flower
petal a tear a smile a whisper memories
gently cascading off the soft cellophane lining of time.
silently, she begins to cry.
in the image of the rain through welled up eyes
she loses sight of the old hill.
the chair begins to rock
back and forth and back and forth and
with a sigh she thinks yes, this is life—
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