Laurel
I move lightly in the gentle spring breeze, which gives an impersonal sort of caress. The sun shines down heavily upon me. An interminable weight, an eternal reminder. Flirting with me, mocking my choice.
Do I regret spurning love? Sometimes. It is a lonely existence here. No one sits by the river anymore, no human footprints dance on the ancient sands. The golden grains lie there, rich as the sparkling banks of the river Pactolus, where Midas once washed away his ungentle touch, forever staining the ground. The sand is undisturbed, gleaming in the harsh light of day, shining serenely in the silken light of night; time means nothing here. Day and night chase each other around the world, their passing meaningless to this place. To me. The reeds grow out of the quiet waters and cry as they bend before the wind, gentle maidens fleeing a forceful lover. Their moans would rend my heart, if I still had one.
I miss the glorious company I once had, the tumult of voices, the call of the hounds, the sharp hiss of silver arrows, the pleasures of the hunt. I no longer run with the moon and her followers. I cannot. I regret leaving them; I miss the joy of partaking in the divine chase, of running barefoot through the pathless woods, silent and fleet as a startled doe. Of running a creature to the ground. Of victory.
But I do not regret fleeing him. I have remained true to myself, and have long suffered the consequences.
No one picnics in my shade as they once did, in times past. Rich purple wine no longer flows from goblets, brown bread is no longer broken, no books of poetry cast their spells and enchantments, no lovers weave garlands created from my hair with which to crown each other. I am forgotten. But emptiness gives freedom as well. I have begun to move again. I shift my former legs slightly, readjusting myself on the sinking sands. The grains start to ripple, confused and unruly, unused to motion. I feel them slipping, I feel alive, almost human. My toes reach to the cool waters of my father�s river, and I instinctively curl them away in surprise before seeking nourishment. I toss my green mane, rustling enough for an entire forest, shedding my leaves into the water. They are caught up in the current and flow away. My branches crack like stiffened joints, my bark ripples with the tension of muscles under skin
The belief is wearing thin. Something in the air has been changing. Decaying. I feel it in my sap, thinning slowly back to blood as it pumps through me. From my height I sense this modern world encroaching. Buildings, their foundations stabbing deep into our great mother, loom over the dying green places. Ancient holy places. Grey, without the natural variations of true stones, pushes away all other colors. Cities, far more squalid than those I avoided in following my lady, are moving in, a blight upon the land. Sickening it. Killing it.
My would be lover, his lady twin, and even my distinguished father lie in musty books, buried in unfeeling libraries, all but forgotten. Nothing more now than strange words in faded brushstrokes upon crumbling pages. Gone are the days of pure faith, or even cautious superstition. Temples lie abandoned, their marble greatness littered with unfeeling tourists.
What will happen, with the gods gone? The great pantheon has been cast aside, without belief it has ceased to exist. The sun and moon still dance about the earth, the stars still shine, but their intelligence is gone. What will become of us; the vestiges of their power, mortals transformed? We remain, needing no worship to survive. Can the malignancy of disbelief free me, return me to the girl I once was; so long ago? My world is gone. Yet I am here. Waiting. I am not sure what for.
The sun�s arrows strike the world without intent. Once feared as harbingers of sudden death, they now do their damage subtly, without an engineering consciousness behind them. Causing slow, insidious, unthinking harm to Gaia and her children. Without worship the sun�s arrows are merely forms of light. Modern science has reduced the far shooting lord of Delphi, who once loved me, into a burning ball of gas in the sphere of the heavens. The sun no longer has anything to do with me, he sends no processions of youths to worship my beauty, neither his athletes nor his golden emperors wear my leaves as symbols of greatness. According to people now, all he does is feed me and keep my smooth leaves green. They believe I rely on him. He has no personality, no pride, no talents. He who was so great at music and poetry. No longer the proud hero. He does not exist anymore. Yet I need the sun.
I remember how he once was, all arrogance and lust. He was the rising sun, painful to look at in his glory. A beautiful youth with curling locks, a perfect physique swollen with pride. He was the supreme musician, the patron of all poets and artists, a friend of the muses, a great giver of gifts to humanity, a god of light and truth. He possessed every talent but humility. One great fault to balance his excess of grace. I followed his chaste sister, goddess of the moon. Many men had pursued me before, and I rejected them. I swore to love none. I was carefree then. The sun was to be my downfall. By some misfortune he came to love me, he chased me, I raced the wind in my fear, but still he gained. I could not escape. Like a hind trapped by one of my own dogs I could not get away from him. I pleaded with him to leave me; he refused, lamenting the pains of love. I could run no more, but would not let him have me. I prayed to the earth, begged her to take away the beauty I so cursed. She helped me, in her way. Enveloped me in bark, turned my rounded arms to branches, my long fingers to fragile twigs. The hair that the sun longed to touch grew into dark oval leaves as my feet clung to the ground. He would not have me, but I was no longer free. No longer myself. Even then he laid claim to me, embraced me, decreed I should be sacred to him, my leaves part of his worship. For a long time I was. But I am free now. He is gone.
His sister, my lady of the hunt, was tall, pale as the face of the moon, slender and graceful as her bow. She shone with a silver light all her own, illuminating the night, protecting us. Now they believe her to be nothing more than a rock reflecting back the sun�s light. Not even luminous in her own right. My friend, my lady, who so delighted in her arrows, is gone. No one believes her to exist, and she has died.
Even my white bearded father, august Peneius, the once powerful rushing river, has become greenish brown with pollution and proliferating algae. My companions have faded into the annals of time, captured only briefly by a blind poet. And a few egocentric Romans.
Is this the decay of the final age? The times of gold and silver are well past. There are no heroes left. They died even before the gods. The race of iron infests the earth. Miserable, crawling insects. Things are ending. They must be. The poets� dead tales are now almost true. Modesty, shame, and justice, the last immortals, are fleeing the world. I only await the birth of children already grey with worry. Once the last age is devoured by voracious Kronos, will I be freed? I who once ran with the hunt, who was once pursued by the sun, who was once called Daphne by an adoring father, I grow weary. Of my branches. Of my rough outer layers. Of my solitude.
I regret the passing of the old ways, but should disbelief free me, I will praise with a human voice the godless new world.