Moonlilies

I had known him once. In the times when the sunlight would light those green eyes until they shown with the joy and light of a thousand diamonds. When his laughter would peal like the bells young maids tied in the manes of their horses. That was a time when nothing could hurt him. He would run with the best of them until he was ruddy-faced and breathless. He had not won much in life’s contest of looks, strength, or courage, but he had won at life itself. His was the sun and the clouds, the gentle breezes on hot days. The calm waves lapping at the seashore in an earnest drumbeat that he would dance to. Vibrant. Tenacious. The days were his, so filled with light and life. His heart and soul belonged to the warmness of soul and a sunlight that shone so brightly, he swore it would never fade.
    Until it did.
    As all things do slip away in a corporeal world, from the mortal frets and fingers, so did his sunlight, his joy. Gone in a single night.
     Now, a pale wane moon floats above a glass reflection of itself. So still, so calm is the air that not even his exhale disturbs it. Peaceful. Calm. The bliss of a midnight dear. His is never to see the day, never to see the sun or feel its kiss or smile. His is the calm glass lakes, the soft warm winds that kiss the midnight stars. Nothing is wrong with him of the long black hair and soft green eyes. He just prefers the wonderful silence of a world untouched by the light and noise. His soft footfalls muffled on pine go unnoticed by the other creatures he shares the forest with this night, just like every other night. Foxes strut around him and owls swoop behind. His friends: hunters like him in the dark of night. His shoulders touch the soft leaves that bow from willow tress, the bark of saplings and the stillness of the air as he walks deeper and deeper into his seclusion. The tips of his fingers trace the shapes of closed petals so gently, like the lightest brush of a lovers lips across ones own. And there he kneels, in the soft dirt. The grass just growing over the hump there. Shaded in the moonlight shadows, next to the tiny wooden swing he kneels. And he begins to cry.
    Here, his tears watered the tiny moonlily growing there. The flower that only blooms in the moonlight. The flower that marks the grave of his sunlight and joy. His Anabella, beloved daughter, mother, wife.
    Yes, his is the moonlight sonata, the dance of hushed willow trees, where he may hope to see her again, swinging there in the swing. His is the soft pale white moonlily marking her last resting place. And he will love her forever, until his own dying day.