Imagine a leaf
falling down onto your belly
as you lay naked on the sundeck
of a boat two thousand miles from shore.
It's a perfect leaf
quite dry and green
and of course it scares you so
because of its impossibility
and your need to account for it.
What if you never do?
You keep it, the leaf
to show to others on the boat
but even though they understand
they find your wonder greater than theirs.
This reduction in feeling progresses.
Back on land you repeat your story
but even those who love you most
those you trust
do no more than ask a few logical questions
before moving on to other subjects.
Perhaps with a shake of the head
but more likely incomprehension.
Eventually
(because you have no way of classifying this event
or even understanding it)
the notion of what happened to you recedes
powerful still, but into a darker place
as though a room without light.
You cannot make sense of your leaf
and so you ignore it.
(Unless, of course, as though in equal and opposite reaction, it won't allow itself to be ignored and instead demands your constant attention and, in doing so, diminishes all else, then what you have is an obsession, which if viewed correctly can be the greatest of blessings and, of itself, a reason to live, as she has been since I met her.)
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