July 18, 2024 - “Shade Part II” by Kyrsten Jensen

She bloomed time and again;

those rare, fragile

white flowers spreading shyly,

pink centers peeking out

and we plucked them,

one by one.

We braided them into our hair,

made wreaths and delicate crowns

and left them to dry

and shrivel, shrink and

shrink and

crackle under our feet.

The blooms ceased to be

beautiful things to us—they were the

passing of time,

the curl of mist as it

burns away to nothing.

We did not save them,

or press them between the

pages of thick books.

We did not love them,

and we did not notice

when they faded.

She reaches outward still.

Her shelter has not shifted

nor weakened.

We take limbs, and blossoms,

and leaves—

build and break and take

until she is bare

and still, she stands on.

She protects the quiet,

and will until the glint of steel

steals the shade away.

And we will spread our hands

across the smooth,

barren surface—what is left

of a mighty presence,

and trace the map of the

rings left behind, close our eyes

and read them like braille,

fingertips living a story in a language

we forgot.

We will remember the blue quiet,

and the soft peace of her.

We will craft a crown of

flowers—press them and

seal the petals, thin as

butterfly wings, into a pane

of glass.

We will stretch our fingers,

bend them,

practice the motion so that

one day,

our own shade

will be another’s peace.

We stretch our fingers,

curled up to the sky.

Maybe one day,

the stars will read

the deep circles of our story,

trace them with fingers of

light, and

somewhere

she will smile.