She is a child again.
She hears the All song
but her ears are deaf
in the next minute.
As she turns,
fractured color
fills her eye.
Where mirrors
and circles
intersect
she see herself:
seventy-seven incarnations
of perfection.
The imperfect,
a beautiful tapestry
of color that glows
like a painted window.
Child and elder,
lovely and ignorant
in the most profound ways;
wise and lonely,
small and playful,
sad and grey
a rock in the storm,
the sun of an old day,
a tremolo over the water.
A chorus sings
from her chest;
voices raised in
harmony,
dissonance,
life and pain,
death and joy.
The wheel of forever exists
where bad and good do not exist;
above or below center,
right or left of center
but each variant
is one beautiful jewel
on this shield.
where bad and good do not exist;
above or below center,
right or left of center
but each variant
is one beautiful jewel
on this shield.
