She’s so pure, that woman with waxing moons for eyes
Floating through the kitchen constructing her craft
Her eyes, they ask, so I reply, “You are.”
“I found it for you” she’s told me
From the floor, she’s picked it for me: “Thank you.”
Eventually, the kitchen floor sprouts small evergreens.
She no longer glides through her domain,
She is stopped by the trees
They talk of ability and value but
She longs to trance unhindered around her kingdom;
She looks to cut.
“I found it for you” I say, lifting the axe to her palms.
She no longer yearns for the future nor lives in the present.
The trees lasted through their sentence and told of her past:
A past scattered with the exquisite; each tree, a memory, each needle, a detail
She forgot her ability to float; the moons in her eyes began to wane:
She’s so strong, that woman with a liquid suit of armor,
She believes her future will not ever become her past.
The trees grieve in their misguidance, trying to explain that her future is a seed, growing as she
breathes.
“I’ve lost it.” She whispers.
“I found it for you” I said
And there was her smile, sitting in the roots of the tallest evergreen, whispering “You are.”