Wolfy Chai

I took the same drive I have taken many times before. Up along the winding mountain roads. To my favorite little olive grove. 

Oh how I wish I could move again…

I climbed these hills many times. I walked my stride along its ridges and lines. Not knowing then, I wouldn’t ever be walking them again. 

I tried to hold my head up high, I allowed my eyes scan the trail’s sign, that told me of the sights I would come to find, 

up ahead, to my left, or to my right. 

The big boulders that you’d often see, the shaggy mountain goats with turned-in knees, the buzzing bees with furry feet. 

Oh how I wish I could see that again…

I stood there for as long as I could, until my weakened knees have taken all that they would. 

Oh how I wish I could feel again… 

Let the winds of the valley flurry by, gently brushing me between my thighs. 

But it was so sudden, when the blood left my face, and soon I no longer could feel the wind’s gentle trace.

Now even the memory of its familiar embrace has faded, time has passed quickly, I hardened within. It was just another memory that had long grown dim. 

And so, all these things are now only found in my dreams, along with my visions of the rustling leaves. 

It is deep in the nights when I hear nature’s tunes. Like tiny embers that ignite in a pitch-black room. I still would sing along to the familiar songs, of birds that chirped, the crunching hooves of the deer. They come back to me, trickling in, like the nearby rivers I used to swim. 

Oh how I wish I could sing like I used to. I have tried again and again to sing the songs, but only scratches of noise seem to come through, coughing up slime like a croaking frog being mauled. 

And so now I look to the moon in my bed, hoping each time she passes a new leaf will begin. But by now many moons have come and gone, only handing out glimpses of their teasing glow, dolefully simmering on the blackened street puddles below.