White is the color of the flowers that bloom among the the edges of the garden paths. They all pretend to be smaller replicas of the full moon that reflects from the surface of the pond. This pond lies at the center of my garden. It’s glass-like sheen is buttoned up with rows of ever-blooming lily pads that the fireflies use to waltz upon through the waxing nights. Everything is perfect here. I know the exact time in the evening that the crickets sing and crescendo their hearts until the morning fog gently kisses this world of mine. The dawn blushes in each, new, perfect way, as though she never expected to be wakened once more by a diminishing night. I somehow have imagined to myself that each time the dawn rises, the night is slipping away. He waves softly to her just as she breaks, and his last memories slip beyond her view. She chases after him age after age, never attaining him but always in the same, repetitive circle because she is too blind to be anything other than what she thinks herself capable of being.
Am I like the dawn?