She woke to the feeling
of cool fall air on her skin,
and the whisper of leaves fluttering near,
like an aspen or cottonwood’s rattle,
and her eyes strained to see,
and because so much had been
in her minds’ eye,
it took her quite some time to realize
her eyes didn’t work,
and she couldn’t see at all.
She couldn’t hear.
She could feel the wind, though.
She could feel the whisper of the leaves.
She could feel the damp coming,
the rain coming,
the tears coming.
She could feel with her toes
that weren’t toes
and her outstretched arms
that weren’t outstretched arms
that it was much, much too long
since the last time she had awakened.
Leaves had fallen ten times or more.
Delicate flowers
were overgrown with wild vines,
and mosses had become
thick blankets,
but promising the fairies of old
would come to claim you,
make you forget.
She ached to stretch her limbs,
to tip her head back and laugh,
to look down at who might be laid at her feet,
but all she could do
was wait,
and wait,
and feel.

About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
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