even if the magic flower
wanted desperately to acquiesce,
still she might always choose not

even when mah-jeeka floor-aye
was in the deepest knead to acquiesce,
in truth of will she might always defuse knot

thus is the nature of such dance
en pointe of arabesque

she carried an ancient lidded jar made of alabaster.
it fit so perfectly in both her small palms cupped together,
the base of the jar melded through her delicate skin
to merge with the tiny bones of her hands.
there were no markings on the smooth lustrous surface.
though pale, the jar was glowing, colors ever changing,
illuminated by the spiral seedpods inside.
while she carried the vessel, she chanted and sang,
“i dwell between elements with song.
i am the spark, more than the fire.
i am the air a fire would need.
from these seeds a world will spring
shimmering across the dark layers of the deep.”

with wreath she doth weep
she would reach out
her broken hand to thee
in soothing comfort
even as she crowns
the upturned earth
with a circle of flowers.

eternal she waits for you

just to see her face

hedothslitherquickwitheatofbeautyupontheburningsands.

and the aqua of the atlantic

rainroseseerdarkvelvetredintowetbluedeepinsidejustforyou

rainshelongsformymelody

As any firefly knows
The finest place to go
is within the rounded chambers
of luminous petal walls.
The pistil is a center column,
with stamen arching upwards
the fragrance is just forming,
rich and undiluted,
not yet released.

As any firefly knows
The magic place to go
is to slip between the petals
into a scent saturation haven
a room out of the rainy weather
to glow and tryst away inside
the temple of a magnolia blossom
Before the flower
is fully open.