Her curse was our period of glory.
Everything became so quiet—no galling chatter
of humans, no jarring barks of dogs, not even the buzz of a fly.
Only the subtle hum of our parents—sky and earth,
stretching our verdant vines, plush flowers, and
between them endlessly.
Oh! And our roses—petals soft as the feathers on a goose—thick as the bark
of the old oak, to speak of their colors does nothing.
How can one explain the shades of sunrise? Not pink, not orange
but a pool of both. Fibers reflecting light, whirling a
After the kingdom re-awakened,
we were once again tamed. Cut back.
Torn apart. Thorns carefully discarded.
Thousands of our precious
flowers scattered throughout
the courtyard for the princess’ wedding
day. Trampled on. Left to fade.