153

her offering
was the simplest
and most natural:
that the world
would disappear
into itself.

.
.

152

for those who were able
to maintain a certain confidence
even the desolate wake of her absence
would be fertile.

.
.

151

each leaf
whether of tree
or speech
was but a withered sun.

.

.

150

she always entered silently,
or so it appeared
for there were those who claimed
that she never left.

.
.

149

for those that knew her
bathed in light was not just an expression.


.
.

148

those who were truly familiar with her knew
she would brook no compromise;
there were only two options:
either all would have thrones or none.

.
.

147

she cleared her shelf of all its contents.
then put them back one by one
until it was empty again.

.
.

146

others were never sure
whether she vanished within things,
or if it was things that vanished
within her.

.
.

145

wherever the sky settled,
she would gently tread her path.

.
.

144

there were those, frail,
whose sustenance
was but the pale pollen
of her silence.

.
.

143

her world being liquid

they could bathe there,

and emerge unsullied.

.

.

142

she would linger
—long before
and long after.

.
.

141

though her garden 

was luminous,

the things of this world
drew sustenance
from the dark.

.

.

140

for those she favoured,

she would reveal herself
in the gaps and chiasms
of the everyday.

.
.

139

her vulnerability
was indestructible.

.

.

138

the barest of glimpses
would suffice.

.

.

137

in her world, infinity
was just a matter of course.

.

.

136

comfort was not
to be found
in memories,
but in remembering.

.

.

135

the precious
and the inconsequential
were both delicately poised
within her gaze.

.

.

134

even the barren bore fruit
—perhaps only the barren...

.

.

133

humbled,
as all inevitably were,
eventually each had little choice
but to bow their head;
only to discover,
there beneath their feet,
the radiance long-sought
that had, until then, been denied.

.

.