Like a wolf she ran low in the field of sunflowers, so tall they were untouchable. They shielded her from the sun like guardians of light, as she ran unseen by the heat. Past stalks she could see her pack running with her, on cool, damp ground, welcoming. She felt stronger than ever, loving her tribe endlessly.
Suddenly, she is wretched and reframed, life taken and placed back with great pain. Confused, she opens her eyes slowly, afraid of what symmetry remained.
She cowards behind the trees, ashamed of like whom they have made her. While the wind whistles between needles of pine, her orange mane flows as though braiding itself.
She looks at the presences which seem to materialize before her. First, a brunette in a dress, bluer than the sea, waltzes into existence teasing her with eyes of play. Then an angel of golden hair and pink satin reveals herself from behind the kiss of lifting fog.
They communicate with one another using their souls alone. Golden and Deep Blue spin a tease and then nod. “Come with us,” they seem to sing, though their lips never part. She smiles as she joins with them palm to palm, with only a whisper of air between skin.
There they run, three bright beauties, fragile, yet strong, all the same, among the trees to a clearing where a waterfall pours below them in a humble bow of gratitude, bellowing them to his warm bay.
They dive simultaneously and with wonder, beginning further than closer, apart. They draw together while spinning, weaving a trifecta of power and might, swirling closer and closer, until chord strong woven. Piercing the surface they crash into, where they become versions of marine life alive. They swim with vigor unmistaken, suspending time along with the tide.
Refreshed, they find themselves standing where waves can no longer reach. Wind massages their gowns until dry fabric, wisps their hair with its care until light. Now land form again, but immortal, they transcend down cool and dry caves.
As adventures slow, she looks longingly, at the new friends she has made once again. Beckoning names to best understand them, with love she hopes they’ll remain.
“Compassion,” the heart of Golden whispers. “Fatigue,” the mind of Blue feigns.
She cries out to the latter, “I don’t want you!” Only silence remains.
Golden elongates her fingers, reaching to sustain Orange Wolf’s turquoise soul. Fatigue’s face wears her pain as a banner, wind wafting sorrow along. Her archway cries of understanding; her time has come- like a dagger to her lungs, she sings her dying song.
A Mighty Judge lowers from the heavens, to decide the fate of the three. “We don’t want Fatigue any longer,” whispers she to the King.
With His hand, away she is banished, from flesh to vapor she leaves. “And now,” states the King with great vigor, “meet Passion as she must be.”
Before them a tunnel of fire, the size and the feel—feminine. Soot at her base, then red bursting into a core of towering heat. So electric, almost a blizzard-like cold, as precious metal on the finger of a Queen. From there the orange heat fades to yellow glow and swirls about, forming a soul.
Without a further word needed, she dives into piercing flame. The King Judge and Compassion stand firmly. Only protection; no pain. Consumed, she merges with the flames, perfecting her pirouette… again.
Photo Credit: Sunflower Flame, by Svetlana Peric