flight of a gazelle

Image symbolic only

I sit on the green grass

at the end of the meadow

my feet all wet with the dew that

frolics on the tips of

the swaying blades;

down at the other end

swings with the wind

the scarecrow

grinning at the mocking birds

that peck at it in disdain;

the blue sky above stares

deep down at me

the wind blows relentlessly

slicing through my flying strands

brushing my eyes

as I try to believe that

this is all my kingdom;

the sudden call of a

distant peacock jolts me

out of my bubble in a flash;

as I stand up gasping

my dress wet, hands dirty,

meadow springs to life

green is stark

scarecrow is evil

sky is smirking

and peacock

the real king

flies across the expanse;

I run back

in a flight of a gazelle

catching my breath

learning at that very moment

what I think is mine

will slip out of my fingers

even as much as I try

to hold it with both hands

in the sands of time

ruthless in its escape;

meadow will still be green

sky will still be blue

winds will still be relentless

and peacock will

still be king