Esme(e) who began with eyes of violet
and sometimes the brows were black and strong,
arched and puissant they were, and
sometimes they flew away.
Sometimes Esme(e) seemed so tall, with shoulders sharding here and there where they were not wanted, where they did damage, scruffed bark, bent grasses, squashed vines.
Sometimes Esme(e) was a willow for grace, that fascinating, that clement.
Curious, in the meadow, left, sound was not what it was other places, nor time, nor expectations nor any of the things to be seen.
Was it the meadow?
Or was it something else, perhaps laid over like veil or chord like a dream or hope, too, I suppose. There were times, I remember, when many things seemed possible. If they could be thought they could be real, somewhere. And anything could be thought. And had been.
But was it the meadow? Was the meadow not stage or setting vital though that is but actor equal, seeker pareil, or, more?
I thought it possible, recurrently, that the meadow was mage.