Perched high above the hum of the city, nestled in this castellar fortress. Among the trees, a wind whispers. The birds sing their farewells to February, and watch among the branches as the world whirls by below.
She looks up wistfully, her breath catches at the haunting halation captured as the sun slips into the shadows—the brilliant last light too beautiful to be caught and held more than a moment—she lets it go with grace, and follows its fading gleam—past the charnel, with its costly carcelage.---Away from the angry glare of lights too bright….burning her blue eyes---stinging her salt-water streaked cheek.
Rung by rung, she climbs…ascending up---away. Higher and higher she goes…each new step birthing a hope and prayer for a shining, chimerical sign—a sign of peace—a promise of provision—a reconciliation of hearts—a healing.
Arriving at the apex of this fairy dell in the sky, a ceremony of chasmogamy is born. And, in the moonlit gloaming, with each petal’s preening—reaching ravenously among the stars—petitioning the Maker for that manna from above, this flower’s compline commences.
And there is sustenance in the twilight—as the morning makes its bed to rest, and rise again~