She was not a rabbit that you could snare.
She was not clay that you could morph and mould into its smallest and most insignificant of forms.
She was not a treasure to be locked up in a glass cage and hidden from the light of day.
You could not capture her…
hold her…
squash her…
Not without her consent.
No.
She was the winds that come on the front of the storm, reckless and ominous.
She was the eye of the hurricane,
the glistening first snow,
the pounding of a rainstorm,
and the whisper of a summer breeze.
She was the scent of flowers as spring approached.
She was the swish of a white tailed deer as it raced through the trees,
the delicate song of a bird,
the fierceness of a lioness.
And while you could try to harness those things. Rest assured.
You would go down as a fool.
For only a fool would try to capture that which could not be snared.
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