and with soft, scented skin flushed pink
from a beating heart. And she moved.
She spoke, laughed, walked under sky acres.
Then immortalized inadequately in stone or words.
Crafted but cold, stationary, here and gone.
open a season of fasting and prayer.
This morning, a white dusting of snow.
This afternoon, black dust that we are,
and to which we will all return,
for those who still need a reminder.