flurries of leaves chase her,
the vivids leaving a trail
of fragile elegance
just another mystery.
like how the moonlight chooses
to illuminate her essence
as the only luster in the night’s caverns.
or how the wind lifts her heavenly hymns
as if it knows her glory.
“there are cathedrals everywhere
for those with eyes to see.”
it’s hard to imagine her
as anything other than angelic, or righteous;
her soul harbors
an immersive sweetness
a gentle core
only a girl could embody.
she must be winged
with feathers so innocent
that humanity is blind to them.
her crucifixion,
at a cross of cherry-wood,
will be the death of all deaths;
lambs now bleat
with songs of grace & God.
was her mother Mary?
or did she rise from mortal blood
and bring the wildflowers with her.
Photo Credit: https://www.flickr.com/photos/minkin8/6095962432/
