Oh how the wind blows. 

Oh how the clockwork ticks.

 

When I’m not keeping myself busy,

When I’m not consumed by work.

 

I get swept away by the wind. 

I get swept away in thought,

 

Of what could have been.

 

And in sorrow and pain, I paint what that would look like. 

The soft and delicate curves.

It reminds me of sympathy and trust.

The warm and vibrant colors.

Yellow and orange strokes decorating the canvas.

They would dance in a harmonious rhythm.

 

I would imagine my perfect scene.

 

But oh the wind blows outside.

Challenging the trees as the leaves fade into different shades.

The wind asks the trees a simple question, ‘when?’

 

A simple question.

But I ponder it more unbeknownst,

I ask it myself,

When will I let that memory go?

When will I forgive myself? 

 

I set the bright painting aside, it isn’t what I know.

I start to paint what I know to be truth. 

The sharp and jagged points display the canvas.

Harm I’ve touched and know too well.

The colors of grey and black riddle the scene with touches of blue and green.

Sadness and envy shining through.

 

I stand back and stare at it in familiarity.

I accept it for what it is. 

 

I open the door.

The wind picks up and throws my hair around, acknowledging my presence.

It plays with the frays of my jeans, inviting me.

I raise the canvas I wish I knew and the wind asks me ‘when?’

I shout back at the loud whips of air ‘now!’

The canvas is thrown off into the night sky. 

I watch it leave, happily knowing I’ll never see it again. 

 

Wind got the answer to his question that morning. 

The faded leaves began to fall one by one. 

The branches saying their goodbyes.

 

I still have the canvas I know to be truth. 

It hangs on a shelf, collecting dust.

Like how when the snow melts the leaves from the fall will still linger.

Like vague memories. 

I barely notice it now but when I do, I reflect.

 

I look at how much I’ve grown from then. 

Oh how the wind blows.