Verity in photographs is as elusive as the path of light across water, skipping merrily, occasionally pausing to tantalize, but remaining beyond human ability to capture. Most photographs of me, mineself, don't capture the serious look that usually lingers about my eyes or strange flickering maturity that passes over my face from time to time. I only keep one picture of myself in full view-- the group photograph from my senior prom. We sit behind an artifical background of painted Grecian colums and sprays of white tulle in a neat semi-circle, five girls seated on the heavy plastic bench in front of their dates. My figure is subtly different from the rest, sitting properly while they have slipped under the pressure of the hands on their shoulders. My dress, too, a dark green tafetta with lacing up the front, is not quite the standard satin dress worn. A bright smile rests on my face-- there's no romance or glamour about this evening. My hair looks red-gold under the lights, and has been twisted into curls and crowned with a tiara of baby's breath. Silver lattice earrings the design of the silver buttons on my bodice dangle alluringly from my ears, and a tiny diamond heart snuggles in the hollow of my throat.

Can you tell by looking at the girl with a single curl by her cheek the time she spent preparing for the picture? The delicate sweeps of blush across her pale cheekbones, the rich rouge of her lips? Is the impatient argument she had with her mother over the arrangement of the curls apparent in that old-fashioned mass of hair against her neck? Is friendly small talk and laughing smiles seen in that smile? And can you tell that as she rotates slowly around the dance floor, beneath the softly coloured lights, her heart is elsewhere, laughing in the rose gardens under the pale starlight?

The Photograph-- the one that will go on the glossy back flap of the book I've already written in my dreams-- is imagined as well. My head, twisted in a slight profile, looking off to some lovely sight-- a gathering of rosy clouds on the horizon, perhaps. Golden-brown braids pinned in a Heidi style, lips curved in a quiet smile. Dark eyes lined with the faintest touch of makeup, lips a touch redder for the dainty brush. I wonder if The Photograph will tell my story. . . but I have always trusted in words before a picture.

On a more personal note, Meri, I'll miss your blog. :( Your entries were always clever and delightful, sometimes wonderfully funny, sometimes heartfelt. I hope that if you ever have the time, you'll bring it back. The blog community won't ever be quite so talkative without you to jabber on.

If you peek through the narrow windows framing my front door, you can see the breakfast nook of the little white house across the street. Dainty frills of lace curtains skim the top of their three-paned glass lookout, and climbing roses fill the air with perfume and a riot of colour.

Outside reveals itself to be a nice, suburban neighborhood, but if I close my left eye and just watch through that single window, I can imagine that I've on my best hat and second-best muslin dress (the green one printed with roses), and am over to tea.

I retired my indulgent wish o' the moment and slipped outside, breathing in the warm summer air as I smiled at the day. A roly-poly bumblebee delighted my heart by gaily skipping from flower to flower, sliding through the azure trumpets of morning glories, and I sat down on the front steps with a soft sigh. The day was happy, and the feeling slid through the leaves and gentle breeze with the air of a triumphant child.

I yearn after icy mountain springs and the verdant fields of English countryside, but oh, sometimes there's nothing I want more than a dreamy smile and a few minutes outside.

Sometimes I wonder. . . . if I were to die, what sort of picture would I present to those I left behind? Would they wander down to my little room filled with dainty colours and shelves of books, and I see the woman that longed and lived behind the girlish facade?

I don't know if anyone sees it.

There's part of me that is not so quiet and modest, some part of me that longs after things I can't begin to express the beauty of. The girl who dreams of having a love so profound that it shakes the very depth of her soul. Soft candlelight, and the haunting chimes of music that passes by in the night.

My eyes trace the fluted rims of china cups for the third time, wondering at the way the roses seem to repressed in the flatness of a painter's rendition. I feel a piece of pretty porcelain behind the panes of society's glass. Something to be collected and admired, but left strictly alone. Untouched.

What sort of ideal lies in ivory towers and clean hands? Why can't I feel my mouth captured in a kiss that bruises my lips? Why must I stay without someone's hands to touch me?

I know that if I say these words to anyone, letting them spill from the recesses of my soul, they'll view me as having no morals, wanting to go and have a relationship now to satisfy phsyical desires. I can only intrust these dreams to writing, letting whatever gift I have lend a blessing to the quiet desire that burns in me.

I've come to realize lately how sacred love is to me, and how I can never sacrifice anything for another's needs or society's demands. I feel deeply. . . I long for someone to shake the very foundation of my being. And I cannot keep it repressed in polite lines of poetry as the Victorians did, but cry it out to the world, regardless of how anyone sees it. I'm tired of fear. . . it has nothing to do with love.

This is what truly lies in the heart of the poet. Let it sing out in celebration.