132

when wandering
through her gardens,
being overwhelmed,
few ever noticed
that her flowers
didn't seek the light
—they manifested it.

.

.

131

unable to count all the world's sorrows
she turned to counting its joys.

.

.

130

not needing words
she would inscribe
all the world's joy and suffering
upon trembling waters.

.

.

129

if lost
often she could be found
lingering between things,
less two shores than a gulf
within which she would idle
in wonder.

.

.

128

another of her secrets,
of which there were many and few,
was for each to remain
the light entwined.

.

.

127

caught in a web of crystal
the butterfly of her thoughts
had ceased to tremble.

.

.

126

into each outstretched palm
she would drop a seed;
which they would then bury
in their own personal dark,
and from which unfurled
the blossoming light.
its roots, however,
would remain invisible,
thrust deep into the loam.

.

.

125

unbound herself,
she reflected all equally;
though one would only need
to dip beneath the surface
to be free of any illusion
—even that of one’s prison.

.

.

124

even those who felt trapped
could thrive;
for the dark, too,
was but another facet
of her light.

.

.

123

multitudes,
both as a whole
and each individual separately,
could be held in a single embrace.

.
.

122

all things
were bathed
in the glow
of her desire.

.
.