only wings remain

Water seeped in long ago, washing away the words. The stories disappeared but their mystery remained. The pages wrinkled as they dried, half-hearted hues clouding the once-bleached paper. Bloodstains of the stories killed in the flood, perhaps.

Glue dissolved, but the charcoal sketches held fast in the book’s embrace. Now they gather dots of mildew like age spots on the hands of couple growing old together.

The pain of losing them is gone now and the lost stories shift into myth. I think I like them best this way, though I’ve switched to waterproof ink.



The trees were given a rare chance to glimpse themselves in their reflections, watching their likenesses ripple in the breeze and finding themselves quite handsome. The water didn’t stay long enough to cause any harm, but gave them just enough time to comb out their branches and organize their buds before summer.