By Andrew Carpenter
She reaches out to touch the sky, and as her hands lose themselves in the blue, I smile. A feather floats in on the wind, light and downy. I catch it in cupped hands, blow gently, kindle the flame there.
“This is our love.” I say to her, and as I open my hands, she sees the feather, brilliant and golden. Light flashes and flickers as it shifts into a gilded flower, shivers, then floats away on the wind again.
“Where will it go?” She asks, and I smile back.
“Wherever we choose to take it.”
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I am a fleeting moment in your mind. Next time you stop to smell the roses, realize that one of them might be me.
Labels: Andrew Carpenter