Into the blooming hedge
of violet lilacs
she slid
made herself
small and still
crossed her legs
like she imagined
her Cree ancestors had
when they sat together
at days end
by blue flames
murmuring gratitudes
for an ebony sky
and fish rich water

So long she sat
quiet as wheat
her movement so slight
as to resemble just another root
anchoring the beauty of bush to earth
that bees mistook the vivid blue of her irises
for pollen drenched flowers
hovered round
dissuaded only by the gentle brush
of eyelashes involuntarily
fluttering out moments

No more a girl
she willed herself
nothing less than

©Julie Ayers
April 2012 – NaPoWriMo 2



About Julie Ayers

Seasoned apocaloptimist, keen admirer of well-placed words, fierce mama bear of extra special children, black belt hugger, and advocate for a fashion rebellion which elevates the most human of hearts to socially acceptable outerwear.

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