Unharmed

I walk quietly through a field of tulips, fiery red,
the rain-darkened soil swallowing the weight of my footsteps.
My dress drifts behind me as the winds begin to rise,
as though they had been informed of my sorrow.
They whisper their consolations,
but every word falls upon deaf ears.

I continue forward, uncaring,
while the end of my long frock follows a few beats later than it should,
as if it too wishes to remain behind among the closely-knit rows.
It clings stubbornly to every flower it brushes past,
grappling desperately at petals and stems,
still holding onto something that slipped from my hands long ago.

The tulips feel smooth beneath my fingertips,
welcoming in the way grief is during its earlier stages.
I try to admire their beauty.
I try, with all my strength, not to look toward the heavy gray sky above me,
yet I find it reflected in every shallow puddle at my feet.

The sky is not angry.
No — worse. 

It is indifferent to the beauty flourishing beneath it.

Heavier and heavier by the minute,
the clouds stew with droplets of oblivion.
They do not care.
They will storm regardless.

It never mattered how beautifully the field painted the earth below.
The sky had always come out on top.

After all, it will remain untouched
while the tulip field lies in ruins beneath it,
long after the storm.