She strummed the edges
of bound golden leaves.
They whispered promised secrets,
shuffling beneath her thumbs;
blank pages,
ghosts of tree ringed memory,
Yearning for new life.
All the world lay open before her.
Pen unsheathed,
ink steeped in dream-spell,
she begins to invoke,
summoning, invoking,
weaving the breath of possibilities,
polishing them
until ribbons of their iridescence
broke through the ivory quiet,
refracting - no,
reflecting her reclaimed fire.
She holds them tight to her chest,
and sings, "this, all of this,
is mine."