L.i.f.e.'s m.e.a.n.i.n.g.[open]

[J.D. Bennet]

J.D. lay down under neath a shady tee. His dark gray shirt made him blend in. His faded jeans gave him away. He had a notebook in his hand. It didn't have a name but was filled with poetry, poetry that he had written. That was one thing that no one knew about, he loved to write poetry.

A breeze picked up and the air billowed through the forest. The wind's hands flipped a few pages to a poem that he had copied out of another book. It was one he thought to be a role model for his poetry.

He didn't wake from his silent slumber as the crunching of leaves was heard. He didn't wake when a breath was taken. He didn't wake when hands grasped the small book and eyes read the poem. He didn't wake until a slender hand was placed on his cheek to see if he was well.


Love


Love means to learn to look at yourself
The way one looks at distant things
For you are only one thing among many.
And whoever sees that way heals his heart,
Without knowing it, from various ills
A bird and a tree say to him: Friend.
Then he wants to use himself and things
So that they stand in the glow of ripeness.
It doesn't matter whether he knows what he serves:
Who serves best doesn't always understand.

Czeslaw Milosz

[Summer Tyme]

She wasn't one who would normally barge into one's nap, but she had been out on the range, practicing her shooting. She had seen the man upon going out, but as she came back and he was still asleep she became worried that he might not be well. Leaping off the golden palomino mare she walked over towards the sleeping man, noting that he blended in with the dark grey tree trunk he was leaning on. Glancing back towards the mare, making sure she was ground tying, she stepped forwards, grimacing slightly as the dried leaves crackled loudly under her worn brown cowgirl boots. Taking a shallow breath she spied a small note book resting on the man's chest, open on a page of a poem. Being her outgoing self the young woman bent down to read what the page had inscribed, a simple love poem brought to a higher measure with metaphors and smilies. Stooping down towards the man's head she lay a soft hand on his forehead, as he still hadn't stirred. Standing back she waited, beautiful features etched in concern, afraid he wouldn't awake.

[J.D. Bennet]

Feeling a hand on his
cheek he woke up. Opening his brown eyes he
looked around and saw a girl sitting there. She
had a book in her hands, a book very familiar.
His eyes focused on the book and as soon as
he realized what it was he snatched it away.
His soft eyes looked up into hers. He sat up
and leaned against the tree, saying nothing.
J.D. wasn't used to being around people, much
less women. He had nothing to say. Confusion
was drawn into his defined features. He
rubbed his nose and frowned at the blond girl.

[Summer Tyme]

The girl back away a step and sighed in relief, the man appeared to be fine. She had forgotten about the small book in her hand until it had been snatched away, she blushed slightly, knowing that it was probably important personal writing. She gave a soft smile in the man's direction, maybe they could be friends, as she hadn't even met any other people in her four weeks of living here. Ummm hello, I'm Roseanna, but ya can call me Rose she started, her voice soft and delicate, disguising her true self. She had always hated her voice, it was much to quiet for her. Giving another glance towards the palomino mare she smiled again and crossed her arms, waiting for a reply.

[J.D. Bennet]

He didn't say anything but closed the book and looked at the cover. Finally he looked back up at her and talked. I'm J.D. His tone was louder, clearer, stronger. It showed his personality. He was defiantly loud in his actions and his voice. He fumbled with the book before putting it down. He wasn't sure how to act. After a while he wiped his hand on his pants and stuck it out for a shake.