Through the portal to the another fairytale, a ghost in the shadow.
A glimpse, white ginger in the shade, beautiful like a mirror; who do you see?
Never there every day, but always around, across the way but distant by miles.
Spicy scents and laughter not for me, just small chunks of life filtered through a shutter blind.
Like the scent that comes on the night breeze; white ginger in the evening, barely a lingering hint but steals your mind away.
No Romeo and Juliet here, only the dancing inside my head; no language for me or time or freedom not even an appellation, closeted like a beautiful jewel and untouchable as air.
But I call time, for the angry paternal watch dog barks like he might have bite and I don't have the right thinking to sooth his howling.
The white ginger is fragile and fades with time; it is the hope not the waiting that kills you.