A Late Walk
Author's Note: This is about Veronica. The poem is Frost's 'A Late Walk'.
When I go up through the mowing field,
The headless aftermath,
Smooth-laid like thatch with the heavy dew,
Half closes the garden path.
*I can't stop thinking about what he wrote. He said he loved me, yet he leaves because he doesn't want to be with me. I am so confused. Why do I have so much bad luck when it comes to men and love in general? First my parents disappear, then Malone arrives and starts making my feelings go out of whack. After that there was that imposter, Malone left, and then Ducart. Why can't I find someone kind, and sweet, and generous? Someone like Ned…*
And when I come to the garden ground,
The whir of sober birds
Up from the tangle of withered weeds
Is sadder than any words
Veronica walked to the garden, tending to the plants that would be used for the night's dinner. She began pulling weeds out but stopped when she heard a shrill screech. A raptor was calling out as it hunted its prey. Veronica looked up at the sky, noticing that the noble bird was above her somewhat. It was an osprey, not an eagle like she had thought. She followed it with her eyes as it swooped down towards it's prey.
*It's funny; the littlest things remind me of Ned. Maybe it's because of the time that amulet turned him into a hawk, or maybe it's because he flew away, never to be seen again. At least, not to be seen by me.*
A tree beside the wall lays bare,
But a leaf that lingered brown,
Disturbed, I doubt not, by my thought,
Comes softly rattling down
As she walked back through the electric fence she noted that some of the trees were becoming bare. She was reminded of the time that fortune teller foretold all of those things. How she would become a tree, how Ned,
*How Ned would have the heart ripped out of his chest. God, I was worried. Then he knocked me out to 'save me'. Nice gesture, but wasted. I ended up saving him. And then promptly knocked him out. He's like a leaf, he can withstand only so much wind, and when he's taken too much, he's gone forever.*
A single leaf floated down from a newly-bare tree.
I end not far from my going forth
By picking the faded blue
Of the last remaining aster flowers
To carry again to you.
Veronica was so absorbed in her musings that she didn't notice a figure standing in the forested area behind her. The man bent down and picked a small periwinkle flower from the ground. As a gentle west wind blew by, he loosed his fingers, letting the blossom fly towards her subdued form.
"Someday, my walk will be over. But it's getting late. Rest soon, and don't worry. We'll walk together again someday.
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End Note: A Late Walk belongs to Robert Frost. Merry Christmas, everybody.