We blend together like honey and milk,
Like razor-sharp blades on pearly skin,
Like widows to dark apparel cling—
We are together with flowers and spring.
In her arms were forty streams,
And stars in her hair—seven.
She sat above the angels’ wings,
And they carried her to heaven.
There to dwell—where, I can’t tell.
Too far, too soon, she swayed and fell.
The sky hid her without farewell,
Beyond all earthly possessions.
A quiet meditation on the fragile blend of beauty and pain, presence and loss—where love lingers beyond the grasp of time.
