Forehead and nose scrunching
against the glass,
agitated eyes cast out their gaze.
Maple, Birch, Oak and Pine,
all laid about in clumps.
Maple’s bright scarlet,
Oak’s sweeping silhouette,
Birch’s pale arms,
Pine’s dark scabs,
Intermingled among the uniform treeline.
A sea of green spreading around her.
She once sat among those trunks,
and skipped over their fallen family,
collected their leaves for her books,
and caressed their branches.
She made shelter out of their roots,
gathered carpets of their leaves.
Their biology, so varied and complex,
were hers to decipher.
She had watched their growth,
and them hers.
Even when she left their company
for seven trillion humans,
When she ordered their execution,
with her wasteful disposition.
If she came back crying,
Hurt by Society,
The forest of a trillion trees
Will stand guardian.
Their leaves will chime welcome.
Their branches will hide her away from the sun’s glare.
Their trunks will be an anchor in the wind.
An infant solving for the meaning of words, a young girl staring at the illustration of the Pyramids, an adolescent boy gazing into the inner workings of a motor, a middle-aged woman starting a new book, an old man trekking to see windings of the Grand Canyon; It is the language of curiosity that awake us all;
Caught in still-life by the headlights of a camera, everyone else is pretty. No flaws airbrushed into perfection, yet, whether laughing, crying, or in a faint smile, every other face bloomed forth from paper with blinks of emotion. All except you.
Go on, try.
Blink into the mirror. Smile. Wink.
Not bad, right?
Try again with a camera.
And your motionless reflection scares yourself.
Lenses blurring blemishes with life on another’s face snaps astringent on yours. Eyebags drooping, eyebrows painfully skewed, greasy hair, acne spattering across your cheeks. Every disgrace clear under the scalpels of a camera.