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In the Midst of Morning, Forget Me Not
Crushed berries and the sea were her only pastes,
because she wanted it to be as natural as possible.
Watercolors dripped across the canvas,
taking the shape of a sunrise over the mountains.
She did it all from memory,
just as she had every other creation.
"You need to learn the difference between memories and reality."
She closed her eyes against the burning tears
that threatened to distort her vision.
She lifted her brush, determined to bring a shred of the past
into the present.
She held it comfortably, a master in her art,
and her strokes were relaxed and professional.
Even her brush was natural,
made from her own horse's hair
and whittled from the branch of a crabapple tree.
"Memories hold no truth; they are but images
seen with a biased eye."
And he had been right.
Her fingers fluttered over the canvas,
and traces of the earth dampened the creases on her tips.
It wasn't a painting, but a memory.
She could only remember the beauty in that sunrise,
instead of the scent of death and suffering
that had lingered on the breeze that morning.
"Reality is the 'here' and the 'now'. It has nothing to do
with the past, because the past is always obscurred."
It was finished.
She splattered her masterpiece with the sea,
misting her blemished memories.
She drew an ink pen from her pocket,
and clearly wrote the last words
she had ever spoken to him
in clear, distinct penmenship.
"In the Midst of Morning, Forget Me Not."
This is magnificent . . . there is no other word to describe it!
J-Called
I really liked this piece. It had a lot of emotion in it but yet didn't come across as cliche. The line that stood out the most to me was "She could only remember the beauty in that sunrise.." Yeahh all in all great work.