Witness

 Craving, starving to bestow compliment where compliment is due, desiring to effervesce to a most astounding presence, as if saying or doing might augment or enhance the astonishing. It’s all an exercise in futility. Such things exist independent of witness, however sensitive.

It’s the sort of presence which defies remark, until the heart of the witness would burst, with the fulness of such encapsulation. Whether it be flowers, or virtuoso, fawn in the wood or beauty in her adornments, all exist before and after the witness.

As a noisy tree falls, a beauty does not require witness to be significant.

Then they are gone, and the witness has either held his bursting peace or not. How does an overwhelmed, choke back his emotion, to bid perfection a well done? There is a sense of defeat in departure. Perfection, achievement may not be acquainted with sadness. To have suffered a moment of madness, just once in a lifetime. It’s marvel it played out OK.

There was the most elegant girl in the most beautiful dress. Ducking into a nearby restroom for time to think, I earnestly craved to rush up to this mere girl, with whom I was unacquainted. I wanted to rant at her, like I’m doing here, about her virtue, her peerlessness, whatever, yet every bit of magnanimous verbiage I could muster, crowded into my mind. The child would likely have been scared beyond her wits. But I was ultimately capable of abstaining from comment. Oh, that I might have written just then!

It was one the worst of my moments, really.

There was a trumpet virtuoso who performed to perfection, and solicited comment from the audience of university trumpet majors. I was there, dumbfounded. I articulated nothing.

There have been flower shops to employ me on Christmas and Valentines Day, with their plethora of poses to distribute hither and yon. I have become intimately acquainted with long stem red roses, their barbs and their charms. Petted a live faun, yes, a young deer! on her very own back, up close and personal. I’ve known such privileges.

The magic and charm of being young and in love was ours to cherish but for a moment, such that all the sum and total of all the bards and the sages of the annuls of time have not spoken or made music thoroughly or utterly enough to ever speak the spirit of being so young and in love as we were for that one pearl-like moment.

Such was the momentary depth of our special magic, my personal treasure and I.

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About geostan51

I'm a wordsmith and a craftsman. I've been known to hand crochet just about anything escept granny squares. I've got about twenty titles in my name on the Kindle Store at Amazon.com.
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