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.