Spring, the start of the year, glowing and growing in colors of life, where at the pool of water mirrored all of life in echo.
Healing from the passing year of burning summer heat, unknowing and random autumn changes, with cold, sparkling, and sleet of deadly winter.
Reflecting all; in good intention, even with the winds wrinkling the pool, swaying slim, dark shade trees as dancers, ending with tall grass and cattails playing along.
Clouds within the liquid above sheltering the skies and blur, pale yellow, sphere shine.
A splash in a distance is heard, short airy stifle gasps after, on the small sandy shore on the far reaches. Sisters-to-be, acting away as if time meant little. The youngest, dark auburn curls swayed as she once kicks the water with glee, wetting her up from the knees up to the ends of her light powder azure dress.
Turns to hearing the other called to her, looking over her shoulder, hooded eyes waiting for a reply. The eldest, dress in cord and dusty sapphire, looking ahead of her sister-to-be, knowing how the youngest was sometimes, as again, without knowing, she kicks the water, bring the warm browns eyes back to the youngest who back to her in fit, not taking in mind of the other’s watchful and worry face.
A gust a wind comes, rattling the eldest’s dark midnight hair, blinding for a moment, but soon clear.  Smallest frown formed on her face, in worry of the other, calling out again, for something of reply.
Used one hand to calm her wind-wild hair, with the clank sound of an golden brace by her ear, as it ranged again earrings of white gems, to the sound; her frown grows. Numbly her other hand toys with stems of poppies, pelts falling as her fingers pinch them with emotional tips of fingernails of thoughts, to keep the tears from fall, as once more calls out to the other, who felt miles away.
But, really, she was only a skipping stone away from the eldest. Again, she turns, unmissed but willing. Eyes still hooded, cheeks lined thinly with tears, bow lips form a words of remorse, shoulders arching low.
In a mist, wind awakes again, shaking and bothering once more. The eldest takes a chance to fill the silence with some calmness, but stops, as eyes gaze farther out, her mouth in form of an uncertain kind of shock.
As in soon she’s in tears as her sister-to-be, with lack of a frown and more of a growing smile. That will in time, has the youngest one copy soon, when she turns back, looking across the pool and seeing something far away, tried, beaten, worn, and happy to be home after being gone for so long from home.
The blue pool of reflection undulates again, for time, is moving smoothly just as it should.
The Pool by Viktor Elpidiforovich Borisov-Musatov
Made in the year; 1902
Location when painted; unknown
