I started to write this one when I first saw this photo on Facebook. I did some research to find the true name of the mountain and then wrote down a few lines. Then I saw Eugenia’s weekly prompt was “fairy” and things took off from there.
UPDATE– However, the fact checkers did not have all the facts when I checked, and it seems I was duped. Fact checkers I used (and I used several) only had the name of the mountain as being incorrect, and they all agreed that this was a drone image. However, it seems they have been updated and the image is really the digital work of an artist named Jean-Michel Bihorel. Thank you to Susi Blocks who brought this to my attention. I may remove the post entirely but I will take a minute to think about that.
Harmony never made sense to me And neither did melody. Can’t tell the difference, you see. No talent with any instrument. A singing voice that’d send me To some lower level of hell. Well, I’d never play Orpheus, That’s for sure. And no matter what you may think, You ain’t some worthy Eurydice.
I gave you all my roses, The many colors I had. Cut them all from the bushes. I knew there would be no more, And I cut them for you.
The last few dozen blooms I cut them down for you. The bushes are dead now.
They will bud no more. I double, triple checked. The limbs snap crisply in dryness, Easily between my weakened hands. No supple green within. A single snap finishes each limb. And so finishes each bush.
Let me walk into the darkest sunrise, Then let me crawl into the brightest sunset. Fading into each as all my weaknesses, All my wrongs, all my sins, all my flaws Boil to the surface, burn, Turning black and crusting over me.
Let me emerge, Then from the cracking, heaping ash, Surely not as perfect, But as something better, Like iron tempered into steel.
Yet if emerging As a thing tempered I cannot be, Let me be content to simply fade Into darkness and flame, Consumed by each in turn Until nothing remained And I become The darkness and the flame.
If only these colored leaves Of red and gold and orange Could be caught, Snatched gently By careful hands To be savored, arranged Somehow preserved, Rather than fall, lifeless Torn from their limbs By careless winds, Shoved to the ground With murderous violence To be trampled and ground to dust Or raked and bagged for trash Or better yet, If only these colored leaves Of gold and red and orange– Could stay filled with life And be always green.
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