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     It had been raining.
     Working its way down from my head, saturating my hair, then running in rivulets down my chest and back, down and across my sloped waist, to abdomen and twining down my legs from thighs to ankles.
     The droplets that met the end of the track at my outstretched fingertips momentarily hang on edge, then plummet to join their own, in a collection of pools around my feet.
     My hair darkens and becomes plastered to my head and shoulders. Face exposed toward the sky, lips parted, eyes shut. A classic pose; a wilted crucifixion.
     I offer up my body because I have nothing else,
     My right hand turns up to the egotistical and angry sky in a scoop, and my head turns to watch the pale palm fill with the wet and then trickle over the side.
With the movement of my stare, my hair shifts across my back exposing previously insulated skin and shivering intensifies.
     I look over the damage that has yet to be done, watching myself be consumed by the harsh reality.
     Watching, because I can’t feel it anymore.
     I force my movements to a still, concentrating on calm and my stance.  The shaking temporarily ceases.
     My face now directed in a straight and forward direction, focusing on the drab scenery, the grayed panorama. I clench my right hand open and closed, the half-functional muscles aching.
     The greenery has retreated in the face of cold leaving the framing of trees, exposing their structure.  Beyond the hardwoods immediately bordering the man-cleared field, there are only varying shades of gray.
     I absently wonder who the approaching figure is. In the disruption of my trance, the shaking begins again.
     Excitement grows as his identity is confirmed, though worried, because he would be angry.
     But his expression is soft and sorry, so different then the image he left me with.  He sets his jacket around my quavering frame and lifts me into his arms.
     His eyes lit the landscape blue.
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Submitted on
December 3, 2006
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