March Or The Fragility Of The First Spring Leaf Poem by Daria Lebedeva

March
Or the fragility of the first spring leaf

She was anxious, worrying with a disturbance on her face,
because of other sorrows with no grace.
She got used to treating good health and disposition
as too precious in front of global perilous collisions.

She can be easily moved by a sad story,
unjust murder, violence, all caused too much worrying.
Already in adolescence, her parents were preoccupied
with a kind-heartedness girl lacking in pride.

Yet now in her 20s - no need for jokes on rare Sunday family dinners,
no fulfilment of her mother's dream to see her daughter as a winner.
One day she saw a dream: "Mammy, mammy, how did it happen?
My front tooth cracked, and I had a hole done by no weapons.

For what misdeed was I immediately punished,
an utterance from my month so heavily blemished? ''
Mother said: "It is not as serious as it might have been"
"But I cannot smile widely anymore, can you see? "

As a child, she felt compassion towards a dog with a wounded leg.
She had grown up next to the young lady who had hung a stylish bag on a peg,
too young, gentle, no -wrinkle face to frown because of worrying.
This situation dominates her parents mind from evening till morning.

People in need ask for alms, not a sympathetic and soft look.
One man in wheelchair vilified her with words not from a book.
"How can a good heart be so forlorn if a social life interacts? "
Her parents questioned one another, seeing generosity as an artefact.

One day her father wisely put: "She needs to get married, it is good''.
But time showed quickly, the lack of guys to flirt or to woo.
She needed an impulse to shake her life from within, as in need.
She tried to put in order the mulled-up thoughts indeed:

to have a long-waited solace as a shelter,
to be disciplined and not to cause any welter.
Suddenly it happened: no objections no more!
‘' Go on a date with the gentleman who lives next door! ''

Her parents wanted to puff her up with a sense of deluxe.
Mother bought a pretty dress, father found red shoes.
On her way with a cheerful mood with no tricks,
she dropped a look at the woman walking with a stick.

Her careless vision of the day was stuck by a stabbing pain,
as if the blood had changed the direction of its flowing veins.
No more stimuli or hits in the day she could find in front
Of her, with a changed face, too distorted and abandoned.

The date was ruined, but no regrets from her side.
At home, she locked her door: ' "never the girlfriend or the bride".
The sun was scorching, or it was heavily raining, she was indoors,
laying on the bed or thinking something up: no more.

A favourite activity she needs more than ever, or less
parental supervision made her immature and prone to regress.
Mother hopelessly voiced: "Oh, she is too fragile,
too refined to meet the challenges or vices of life's trials.

She is too naive to oversee the manipulation of quasi-friends,
her pockets are full of coins for alms, not for clothes with brands."
Father exclaimed: "She is too sincere to unmask the masked lie,
she is too honest to answer the offender and on it to rely."

March is the beginning of hope that fits the freshness of grass,
the greenness of leaves, the juiciness of thoughts in mass.
One perfect calendar day happens once (not counted in fingers) :
with no sorrow, pain and tears rolling down, with joy never lingers.

In her adulthood, she sums up: "I am a woman of sincere heart
never fallen deeply and romantically in love."
In her heart, enormous as an endless field of lavender
with its smell calming down and hypnotising the letter-sender.

She failed to find out the place in her heart for a loving one
instead of millions of ones. The helping hand never
hesitating to be stretched out, turned as a sign of life fever,
of weakness and running from its own basic needs. Out of nerve

like an ostrich she hides her head under the soft and golden-like sand,
Where it is warm and cosy as in the fairy-tale with the marriage as a happy end.
The way of life she chose fitted her fragility and weakness in front of new turns of strife.
For herself she explained: "I am unbelievably strong to be not in foot with life."

She puts: "I wasn't created to be a wife and a babysitter, that's true, that's why
the worrying about suffering nations are closer than a child's calling in cry."
Parents were defeated in the persuading process. The weak urge to be ready in help won
the egocentric high class call to jump on the freshly baked rich bandwagon.

To her merit and to astonish the outsiders she was not pragmatical at all,
who did not squander the parents ‘heritage on small almsgiving, but invested all'
into launching a charity organization, in some years became popular among
her class representatives. Her dream came true; it was not a swan song.

As a "black sheep" in her milieu, she was thanked in the prayers
of pious people she happened to help, she was among low layers
of social stratification. She was too shy to raise her voice, she felt like a sparrow among crows.
She did good deeds all her life not out of praises or post-human applause.

"But why? " Such a simple question stuck her head as with a bag of flour.
In her retirement years, with no answer she was bewildered to ask again in a loud
voice, falling or feeling?as the age added to the whiteness of her greying hair, felling that
an aftertaste is left: but what is that? No disappointment, confusion, or regret.

But what is that? No answer for months. Until after a moral exhaustion
she saw a dream. A dialogue with her mum, hard and vandal as extortion,
in fact, never such a tone and reproach happened in real life.
Only a dream rashly opened a locked door and tor the curtain out.

"Out of the window, there is the real flow of life, flux in a rush
of unrepeated trajectory, with the beats of pulsating energy that dashes
through the obstacles to its ultimate end." To live and to enjoy. That is the aim.
You are silly; you are left unprotected: with no umbrella under heavy rain.

Your good heart? What is the reason why are you allowed its demands to listen to?
Out of pity, fear of God, or reward of others in talks and gossip in the neighborhood?
Because of an adamant need to donate extra blood to the poor or those in no luck.
No and again no, you are feeble and as fragile as a crystal glass. In weakness you're stuck.

"Am I weak? If so, if mum is right, where is the source
of the force to pull me out of the intaking moss?
Where is the jacket to straighten my bending back
to whom do I plea, my peace of soul, please, bring it back."