The ability to write in romantic semblance of oneself is an art that rests in the breasts of the few. These few are not strong of the mind nor do they carry the burdens of a wounded heart.
These few hold still the eyes that can see wonder.
And what could not be said could only be heard and what could not be seen could only be experienced. There is not the least of unwrinkled questions that could the attention of the human mind and yet some stand up and wish on the snow flake the rests on their nose.
The hands are lifted pointing to the miraculous movement of the sun and the moon. And, when the day is covered in the glory of the night, they see the stars scattered in million dimensions. The leaves move toward them, awaiting their watchful eye to rest for a moment on their movements and be captured in their memory.
Oh! The sufficient memory, enough to know what is happening and nothing grander.