Rose stirred the grasses with her hands; Esme(e)
stood quite still.
"Well,
what do you think?" Rose asked and smiled, and
her smile, her smile, was
an autonomous thing I could not save or conquer.
I could not see what it meant for
Esme(e).
Rose
waited, longer than she wished, for answer,
then said, "Aren't you speaking?
Won't you say?"
"What
I think?"
"Yes,
fine, fine, say it." Rose spun the drum of
chance with vigor of owned impatience. Her
hands were rapid in the grass.
Rose
asked: "Would you? could you?"
"Won't
you say?" Rose.
"Do
you think would can become could? Is that the
type we are?" Rose.
"Perhaps."
"Oh
that's no answer at all, Esme(e)!"
"Perhaps."
"I could shake you when you get like this!"
"Elaine
says so."
Rose
caught herself close and stilled. "Of me?"
"Of
herself."
"Impossible!"
Rose turned to the meadow quickly an entrance before them. "If
we went out upon it and kept going would we reach the other side?
Could we? And if we're
that type, should we?" Rose
turned back. Her lips moved in that smile.
Esme(e)
said, "Are we?"
Was there
ever air like green water so filled and sweet
with light it is? I thought I saw such once;
it must have been in afternoon.
Songbirds unseen garnished meadow where
Rose and Esme(e) walked.
Rose
stated, "It looks the meadow grass goes on and on forever
these trees fabulous, diaphanous, and
will fall before our stride don't you think?
the meadow goes on and on its
shape reluctant to divulge its shape dependent
on our course into the
meadow seeking center, possibly, or circumambulating
though whether with sober intent or choice to delude
only the meadow might come
to know. Do you think the meadow knows?
But if we go out upon it, through it, could we come
to its end as well as its center? adventuring
would you?"
