Aurora Borealis

I want to paint you a picture,

a picture of a woman,

a woman who reached for the Northern Lights

and accidentally became them.

She discarded her dust-ridden dregs

with their old habits and rags,

she ripped out pages that stank of resentment

and released empty anger that lingered

on the edges. She culled the overripe

and cut down the decayed, an emancipation of self.

The freedom was sweet and juicy as she bit into it,

the nectar spilling down her chin onto the freshly turned soil.

Her manumission was an amalgamation

of a misguided horoscope and a spark,

a light that shot into the air

and rained down thunder and ice.

She raised her eyes to the heavens and they stared back

in wonder at the way she moved,

a woman wooed by wanderlust.

Bright in the stark contrast of the night,

they mistook her for a shooting star

and plucked her from the earth,

up up up, a dance of soul to sky

an emancipation of self,

legs outstretched with pointed toes

she rose into the air, hair caught up

in the wind, mouth captured in a kiss with the moon

and the Spirits of the North rejoiced

with fire and drums, flames casting her body

into shadow, a silhouette against the darkness

she spun with the heavens, flickering into transparency.

She was a blood diamond and a dream,

the mythology of nations. Yellow and gold

she shone over high hills and sunken valleys,

a whisper of strength in the night,

that ancient promise of redemption.


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