They say little children see angels. She is not an angel, for little children do not see her. Young lovers do not see her, either. They have eyes for each other only. Old people look inside themselves. They will not find her there.
Who is she? What is she? Maybe, she is a trick of dappled sunlight. A tiny swirl of red flickering behind closed eyelids. A leaf waltzing its way down to earth. A girlish woman in a fiery dress skipping through the park. Or perhaps, a fairy sprinkling golden dust on those who are half way home.
Look for her atop a large wooded hill on a clear Indian summer day. If among simple trees wrapped in regal colors befitting emperors you spot a fragile figure – you will know you have found her. Do not be shy – come close and ask her for a dance.
You will watch happiness lit up her face from within. She will nod, and rise on tippy toes, and place her light hands on your shoulders. Do not be afraid – if you have forgotten the steps, she will help you.
She is waiting. Frozen in a graceful twirl like a porcelain ballerina. There is still time. Find her. Dance with her to the music of leaf fall. To the final crisp note of autumn.
Live for the Love of it,
The Happy Amateur
Image credit: Debbie Ohi
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