The rhythm is lost to the winds. As if it were one of the threaded pages of a well-read book missing the front cover that was left without care on a green paint-chipped park bench. It has been thoroughly exhausted and abandoned to the elements of an unforgiving world and tasked to find a new home though its purpose remains always the same.
To provide all that it can through the many simple inkstains in the margins and the bold face type that embossed its existence to now. Whatever meaning or message it held within is once again fully left to your discretion.
The audience always decides the fate.
Consumed for all it was deemed worthy of and cast aside with so little regard.
I feel for that book.
Those etched drawings be they doodles to stave off the tendrils of boredom or maybe some small carvings of something far more magnificent in scope and frame. Did they have purpose beyond the casual? Were they seeds worth watering or merely motes to be admired and only that for a second.
A single stop in time.
Not worth saving.
The weathered park bench that is its new home betrays that much.
I wonder when I walk away if a car might pull up, the back door open and some young girl or boy pound pavement in a frenzy to scoop it up in a cherished hug. Fearful it was lost and forever gone not merely used up and discarded.
Or if it will remain here until the elements take their course and reclaim it.
November 10, 2020
The world is changing.