She can grow dandelions out of her ears, and blow them away, and make wishes on faraway clouds. She envies them. Free-floating and windblown they are - everything she wishes to be. Everything she is.
Winter cradled her gently in frozen wonder. But Summer nips at the heart and the lungs with that too high feeling of travellust. To be, and be, and be. She dips her feet in warm puddles and imagines she falls through them, to a land where the Sun sleeps between mountain ranges. It never sets. Every thing is gold in her eyes. So the rosy-cheeked boy is more amazing than he says he is.
She runs in Daddy’s backyard to some silent music only she can hear. Its the tattoo of her beating heart. Sun-ridden and ill with the thousand seamless colors of another sunset. She goes at night, disappears into the sky, I think. She comes back with Sunrise, hand in hand. Demeter is envious of her barefoot feet, the healthy dirt between her toes, underneath her nails. The smell of baking soil, the smell of humidity, the smell of heavy, lustful plants - all these she cooks in her kitchen.
And if only we got a glimpse of her, in a palace on the sun, in a castle bejeweled in the blue sky.
Give her that blue sky. That blue, blue sky. And that smiling boy.
That golden boy.
Created: Jul 24, 2010Document Media