in droplets

I’ve found ribbons of lilac strewn about 

shadowed wheat, in an attempt to

protect the lingering innocence I still

cannot release. You don’t believe anymore,

you shake your head. You can’t go back. 

Gliding through the golden grass, I hear 

a fading sun, imprinting clouds in

the lilting streaks above. You tell me

many people wear scarves for warmth 

only to flutter in soft gales

more intensely. I forgot that rings of bark 

mark the ages of a tree’s life, the same way

green umbrellas mark the ages of a storm,

and how it tremors 

in droplets. I still don’t 

comprehend how the color 

of an evening conversation where 

I am convinced beyond measurable wisps

of fading blush, that an answer 

to all my questions 

in fact exists, beyond the limits 

of my own clenched hand.

After Woman With an Umbrella, Claude Monet