In the empty room,
she sits alone.
The snow pats at the window,
and the wind bumps against its panes,
but she ignores pristine whiteness.
There were snowballs, sleds and snow angels, long ago.
In the park she sits amidst
singing birds, solo saxophones,
and new blossoms full of hope
and virgin fragrance, budding with the
hum of the earth in their stems,
but she ignores the music.
There were picnics, finding robin’s eggs and holding hands, long ago.
Along the rainy path she walks in the evening,
when people are home, drinking coffee
and kisses from lips, warm and safe and dry.
The broken umbrella hides her face, and the
rhythm of the raindrops beats to the
racing of her heart.
She ignores the water.
There was jumping in puddles, closing her eyes to listen,
and sticking out her tongue to taste the water, long ago.
Standing at the bridge, alone in the misty twilight,
she stares at the red leaves clustering on the riverbank,
as if the tree bled its branches bare.
Vibrant with their true color, she ignores the fallen foliage.
There were bonfires under the stars, the admiring of
deep colors, holding them up to the gold and crimson fire
to see through gold and crimson filters,
and sipping hot chocolate, long ago.
And now there’s
no one left to cry,
to cry with,
to cry for,
to cry to.
And so,
she cries
for them all.
Beyond Panic 