Roses
Julia Do, 2019
She woke up in a flower field
amidst her namesake,
the roses,
and waving stalks of grass
that swayed and swirled
in a whispering breeze.
The sky a looking glass
of the setting sun,
day into dusk
dusk into night
then night came to pass.
Oh!
Under moon and starlight
came a wonderfully terrible fright
when blossoms bloomed,
into a forest of thorn trees and
petal leaves.
A path opened before her,
inviting,
waiting.
Come,
said the flowers.
Roses grow best together,
said the flowers.
She stepped forward,
slow like the drifting petals,
into pink-veiled darkness.
Wait!
a voice called out from behind.
It brought to mind
clear bells and rasping coals
and the slightest breeze
of the summer kind.
There was another girl,
familiar and strange.
Rose looked to her,
and
remembered.
She remembered
the time gone by
with feather-touches
and soft kisses
and a hundred mornings of
I love you.
Rose drifted away,
away from the lying forest
to the place
where the moon shone brightest.
With each step,
they all returned.
Faces,
voices,
names.
(Luna, her mind whispered,
called out.)
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