A true story

I met you in that fairy tale land when I dismounted to volunteer and saw you standing with your mother, awkwardly. That moments expands disproportionately, beckoning from before our band of friends was formed. And not a lot else comes back to me, except your expression that warm summer day when I told you the sun in your eyes made them seem so green; and how my first impressions broke away below the stars in July, when I brought you water, and wondered how such a beautiful thing could battle the feelings of inadequacy that often I fought, and none too valiantly…. and that moment that passed outside the medicine man’s tent; I’m not sure what was done or said, yet the feeling’s frozen as artistry.

A year passed; it’s summation another feeling, expressed as a song. And long before we passed through that land again we knew it would be, and not by chance. And I called you a friend while it turned to romance as I played a song in the shade of a fairy tale tree. And we ventured along no longer alone, to where the fairy tale ended and we made our own, and turned creeks into rivers that led to the sea, and by moon’s light wrote new lines for hours, till by morning I sent you chapters concealed in flowers.

And I chose not to see that pages of fairy tales are bound in a fable, and each must be turned to enable the others to be. And no matter how complete a page seems, each is read fairly equally. And you explained it to me but I refused to believe. I pointed to the beauty we’d written and bade you answer me, “Why raze the most brilliant fairy-tale land, and crumble the castle built with our own hands, when the moments have told us again and again they were meant to stand for eternity?”

But now I see the wisdom that ordained this end – time has long since explained to me that the rhymes of the most beautiful fairy tale, done full justice in poetry, cannot be asked to form the story in its entirety, lest the fairy tale fade into the every day, rather than remain unchanged on the appropriate page where, as it then was, it always will be.

A true story

Jimmy Haslam

Hillsdale, United States

  • Artist

Artist's Description

It may be poeticized, but this is a true story.

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