101

cradled by the gentlest of glances
her sleep bore countless unseen suns.

.
.

100

her nudity a mirror,
the world became her attire.

.
.

099

she could always
be found dangling
at the end
of each breath.

.
.

098

there was no sadness
when looking at the past,
only the fine mist
that is the present.

.
.

097

her unknowing
was delicate and white,
and often took the form
of the palest tenderness.
.
.
.

096

to know her
was to become
ever more gentle.

.
.

095

hers
was the dawn
of all things.

.
.

094

often the easiest and simplest thing
was the most difficult of all:
to accept grace as freely as it was given.

.
.

093

even when soiled with purity
she would remain untainted.

.
.

092

enfolded
the worldless too
would dissolve.

.
.