The river is Monet.
It reflects an approximate image of the world, less clear, more beautiful.
The trees, the brown grasses, the sky appear dreamlike.
You were the river.
You reflected the dreams of what could be against hopeless odds.
You treasured the colors of sunset on the water.
I tried to touch those waters.
My fingers never reached past the surface.
You stole all the light and memories to light dreams not yours.
I found a photograph of you, recently.
It was held under old papers on my desk.
It was startling to see your face.
a stark image, without color,
without the magic veil of a beautiful story.
The camera had caught you off balance and stole your immediate soul.
Tired frown lines webbed your eyes and cheeks.
Your narrow lips pinched your small mouth, smaller.
You were caught in mid-complaint,
trying to hold your wild hair, words, and dizzying world in balance.
Monet was the river of memory reflecting you.
