Please don't bother asking me the reason for my love. Instead, ask me to recall when it began, and I'll describe the season -- dry summer turning into brilliant fall -- and the day -- a morning cloudy and cool, an afternoon that never turned to rain; the oak you sat under while I played the fool eager for your smile, covering my strain at being captured by the web of light spun in your wind-blown hair. That I can tell: each nuance and detail, however slight. But ask for my reason? You might as well ask the flower to describe the sun, ask the bullet its opinion of the gun.
Copyright 1994 Edward Gaillard. All rights reserved.