Let me talk about these humble benches.
Color washes out, wood ages, as they stand all year out, next to trees,
sharing their dignity,
strongly brushed by so much sand,
invisible chameleons in silence.
In the spring, freshly painted, benches spring up again.
And we pause, the two of us, to relax our legs,
seduced by those blossomed rocks, green pillows,
dispersed all around on the ground.
Take a breath, you say, and for a moment we are pinned there,
you and me, absorbed by the view, by the sea, in an embrace.
Out of so many things and moments,
fragile and simple,
ephemeral and anonymous,
one bench will stand out.
Because there we carved the initials of our names in the middle of a heart….
If you like poetic prose you may want to see my post Let’s play storytelling
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