The wind in the trees made a sound, not entirely unlike cars passing over a steel-grated drawbridge, but just dissimilar enough to make a comparison of the two feel rather unreasonable. Why did I have to pick such a bitterly cold day to do all this? I begrudgingly thought to myself as I shuffled broodingly up the soft, spruce-laden slope. I should have just stayed in bed. I hate the cold. The only upshot to the somewhat depressing situation I’d placed myself in was that there wasn’t a cloud in the sky, and the sun’s golden rays poured out generously over everything on the hillside; but it wasn’t too bright, as the sun was still new to this day’s horizon, and my vision was shaded ever so well by the wide maple leaves that edged my unwritten pathway.


I knew that my inward bickering was unfounded, in truth. The reasons for my being up here, now, and dressed as I was, were for a higher cause. My charcoal grey, wool over coat shielded me from the worst of the morning’s bite, but my cheeks and ears were left at the mercy of the unhappy convection currents twisting around them. I pondered deeply, as many do and have done on long walks in the forest, about why we are here, and what we are meant to do with life. But, alas, as many have done and many will do on long walks through the forest, I came to no real answer. That was more frustrating than I had expected.


I finally reached my destination: an old wooden bench at the very crest of the gentle rise. As I sat down, I meditated on the bench’s existence for a fraction of an instant. This bench had provided a moment’s respite and a temporary home to an uncountable number of soggy posteriors before mine. Shaking this useless bit of pseudo-emotion from myself, I sat down. There were more pressing things at hand.


Now fully settled, I turned my fleeting attention to the aforementioned more pressing things, and reached the hand that they had been at into the inside pocket of my coat and retrieved my notebook and black pen. Not the blue one, andcertainly not the pencil; those had their purposes and this was not one of them. Poetry is best served black, and that is what I aimed to celebrate this morning.


I watched the beauty of rebirth unfold before me as the arms of the nighttime drifted from view. Opening to a fresh page, my shaking fingertips ran their flesh down the newly uncovered surface, relishing in the smooth grain of the page’s pattern. My eyes, too, fell downward as I began to write out my perspective on things in thick and unimaginative verse. Why do I even bother with this anymore? I’ve seen it make no living for me thus far, and it’s only lead to loneliness and sadness.


She left me years ago, but the finalization and realization finally suck in as daybreak occurred. I stood up, set my book down, pocketed my pen, and walked methodically out to the edge of the strand of trees on the hilltop. I opened my mouth and closed my heart in an instant of pure unrequited anger and impenetrable sadness as I shouted loudly to all who lay asleep or dead in my quiet mountain town, “I will not die to alleviate your guilt! I gave you my soul and you drained me of hope. I am nothing, but I will find a way to carry my own weight!” The birds in their branches took flight to escape my outburst. The air was suspended for a long moment, and nothing at all dared to move. I breathed heavily, trying desperately to get oxygen to my lungs to slow my racing pulse. The atmosphere was much thinner now than it was previously.


Suddenly, I felt a presence behind me and I turned to face it. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to alarm you.” I said, praying to whatever is or isn’t up there that I hadn’t offended anyone in my second’s worth of vocalized anguish.
“It’s quite alright, really. I hope I’m not intruding on anything,” said the voice. “I don’t mean to bother, it just seems like you could use a shoulder or a friend at the moment.”
“Please, don’t be ridiculous. If anything, I’m embarrassed that you saw me in such a state,” I muttered, with a small self-mocking chuckle following it.


The voice then decided to show itself to my weary eyes, and from behind a great pine tree emerged the most startlingly beautiful young woman I had ever laid eyes on. Her flowing auburn hair curled its way slowly downward, where the tips of the longest strands twisted bouncily up over her modest bosom. Her eyes were the very color of the sky above us, not entirely blue but ever so slightly gray in places. Her smooth, cautiously curving cheekbones accented the shy smile on her ruby lips, which was even more pronounced due to her somewhat pale pigmentation. Her cheeks, too, were accented in a most splendid fashion by her rosy blushing. I was helpless, awed, and speechless all at once.
“Honestly, I hadn’t intended for you to notice me. I’ve seen you up this way before, seeming very blue. I always wanted to try to approach you and try to wipe your tears, but I’ve been cursed with this timid temperament. I’m sorry for everything you’ve endured in love as a result of my inaction,” she spoke, and unexpected tears of both remorse and shame welled up behind her composure.


I took a step forward, and then abandoned all restraint. I nearly leapt to her and whisked her away to my arms and the old, worn, known wooden bench on the wooded hilltop. I kissed the lips that I so beheld as holy and unassailable only just previously. We relished in the warmth of our contact, the frozen sting of late fall burned away by the healing embrace of passionate arms.


When our lips parted, an almost painful experience, we arose without words. I looked to those big, blue-gray eyes for some kind of a sign of what to do. “My name’s Gwen,” she whispered to answer the puzzled look on my face.
“Short for Gwendolyn?” I inquired.
“Guinevere.” She said with a small grin.
“Tomorrow, same time?” I asked, aware of the chance I was taking. I had been wounded in love enough to accept rejection with quiet solemnity.
“You’ve got it,” she bubbled with a wink.


We held each other a final time for that encounter, turned, and sadly went in our separate directions, descending the slopes and the levels of longing in synchronicity. I reflected on my initial pondering from before, and laughed to myself. Maybe that’s the answer.