Tranquility. Restlessness; mental racing; but peace.
A cool breeze presses into my body, tugging the mass of hair across my head and my face, then teasing the shorter, finer hairs all over my arms.
Art. Written; spoken; performed; and painted.
My acrylics wait in a corner, my violin rests under my feet. The paper for English awaits my attention while the seniors’ last concert mourns our new end.
Classmates in classes: I inhabit their rooms.
Dreaming of the summer, still waiting to come, we hope for good times; hope to rival past seasons.
My mind’s cadence quickens, the fan starts to move.
We oscillate as one, through space, time, and groove.
The fan is forgotten, my ties have been lost.
I long for vacation, though my friends are the cost:
For seniors are we, and this fall must we flee,
No longer as one, we’ll see all down under the sun.
We’ll spread ‘cross the earth, as past friends have done,
And I’ll take my pencil, my pen, my paintbrush and easel,
Then I’ll catch all the memories that squirm like a weasel.
I’ll visit each one and bask in its glory, before letting it free to join the whole story.
‘till then I wait, calm and collected, watching all time extend,
Past, present, future, all begin and then end.