Rooted

The darkness is joyful as I stretch out my neck. When the great lights of the dark shine bright, I do my best to extend to touch them because they are so beautiful. I reach out as far as I can, and sometimes it almost seems that I will be able to caress them, but we are never given the pleasure. Alas, I must say goodbye as the fading dark lightens to a gorgeous pink. Some have told me that my skin is the color of the great ball above, but I know not the reflections of my flesh. 

Morning dew transforms into a smoky mist and dissipates into the wind that briskly kisses my face. It is my favorite part of the day. The fuming ball then rolls above and scorches me for endless moments. As I bake in the heat my flesh becomes dry and chapped. All of us wish for a drop of moisture to fall upon our faces, but no moisture can be felt. 

Some of us begin to sing to the hot ball, hoping that he will go to sleep soon. Fortune comes to us on occasion when our singing conjures the great gifts of white and grey blankets that protect us from his boiling grasp. There have been great waves of gifts when the blankets show sacrifice by cooling us with their tears. Some say that the blankets are sad because of how many of us are dying each day, but I believe the tears are a gracious response to our inspirational voices. 

When the fuming ball decides to rest, darkness is welcomed once again. Anticipation makes me wiggle as I await the coming of the multitudes of great lights. I stretch further this time hoping to touch just one. Expanding to reach them is my most favorite part of this life. 

Emma IsaacComment