The stories that precede any still life
that we find in real life
are far more numerous than any actual timeline.
For just as we can dream an infinitude
of futures beyond the western horizon,
we can recount myths and legends
lost among the stars of the darkening eastern sky.
The once-pink frilly flowers there on the weathered bench
have countless myths, but only one concrete factual past.
Fact, however, leaves no explanation on the bench
as it snows in heatless sunshine this morning.
Myth resounds that maybe one he proposed to one she
right here at this bench not long ago,
and what might have been a warm golden dawn
was left the victim of the chill breeze of real pragmatism;
the romance, as the browning petals,
left to the unfeeling breeze.
Legend recounts that a child saw every distraction
with eyes of wonder, and a good intention meant for teacher
was left, victim to the chaos of urban life.
Rumor whispers that a young woman,
barely out of the nest with her own wing feathers,
meant simply to enliven a cubicle with an infusion of earth,
but found that coffee's comfort was the greater priority
for the ungloved hand that carries the optional.
Against such poignant possibilities,
the sterile observation
of drying petals
on an aging bench
in the frozen wind
under a crystalline glow
seems small.