The Gift

It was the most personal gift I had ever given. I needed to present it finely.

So I went to the Amazon Rainforest and veiled it with a Misty Rainbow. I then travelled to Ancient Florence and hammered around it Leaves of Gold. Then I went to Heaven and swirling my hand, clustered Silver Stars for sticking and Empyrean Diamond Dust for sprinkling. After that, I borrowed a Fiery Scarlet Feather from a Phoenix and dipped it in all of the lights of Christmas in New York City and Paris.

It was the most beautiful gift I had ever wrapped.

With all of my spirit, I handed him the Sparkling Crystalline unparalleled package.

"Thanks, but I already have one," he said, handing it back.

There was nothing to be done. I couldn't return it and it was useless to me, already plucked from my chest, now bleeding through the box. I tried putting it back, but it never felt the same.

Years later, I gave it again, or a close replica. It was wrapped in rainbow paper, with a gold bow, glittering diamonds and a red feather. Luckily he was so impressed by the veneer he didn't have the heart to open it.

So there it sat, my grand bluff, an empty box.

The Ornament

It was one ornament. Nothing sentimental- a quite commercial one. Common. A character from the classic Rudolph cartoon who sang when you pressed his hand. It probably came from some last minute shopping trip at a CVS. Nothing to pass down or anything of the sort.

She had carefully not opened certain boxes. The sentiment of her Christmas tree at home, with its childhood accumulations, was so different than this version of her very own Christmas. The one they once created together. Built their own new memories.

Now, with certain boxes sealed and one fine single gal's indulgence- a 7 foot high Hot Pink Tree with Charcoal Branches- she began her own traditions. Rainbow Lights instead of the traditional Berry Red and Icicle White; simple cat-proof Glittered Ornaments in a panoply of colors- Tangerine, Coffee, Peacock, Lipstick, Olive, Platinum, Crown.

Out of curiosity, perhaps to test the battery only, she pressed the hand. The ornament danced and sang. Her new kitten came over, as her old cat once did.

And just like that, the icicles that fell from her eyes.

We had magic, didn't we?

This was the life they should be living, always...

They whipped through invigorating sprays of salt and bolts of wind in the morning Washed Denim sky, themselves streaks of White Baby Corn Blonde and Candy Apple Brunette. This was their last Blueberry morning together on the island and they were ferry bound to make the most of it.

The near empty boat docked and rocked against the coast as the two windswept sisters debarked. There was a world to explore; a Jurassic Park of jellyfish and sand crabs.

Tall wisps of beach grass blew east- natural arrows pointing toward a narrow boardwalk. They followed the cerused serpentine path over hill and dune, deep into a forest that seemed to duplicate itself with every Olivine unveiling. In a fairytale, bread crumbs could've given them a reverse option but the path continued to split and force fast venturesome decisions. Forward motion brought them to breathtaking rays of Sable Glittered Sand.

They ran as fast as they could to the Twinkling Turquoise Tide. There before them was galaxy of Vanilla Clam Shells- a sea of Sparkling Brides before them. Running endlessly picking them up they made haphazard stacks against their chests. Before Beauty could fully set in, thusly came the Beast. From nowhere- a fiercely shaken Etch-a-Sketch, a Coal Blackboard spread cross the sky broken by White Chalk zips of lightening. Two girls gathered the last of the shells and ran between Diamond Teardrops of Rain on wet Pancake Batter sand.

They ran to the dock but had not made it in time for the ferry which stoutly sped away toward the other coast under Ashen watch.

What luck! An ice cream stand!

Under cover of Red Seersucker awning they sat listening to the pitter patter of iced summer rain, enjoying icy scoops of Pistachio and Cookie Dough, waiting for the storm to pass and the boat return.

Summer is an Eternal Pearlescent Childhood,

A Treasury of Shells,

and all in the details.

Golden Butterfly

She needed some magic the most now. There she was; a New Yorker in this unfamiliar state she had dustily dismissed years ago as 'Middle America'. The isolation and emptiness of the farmscape heartily mocked her current mental and emotional muddle. Thank goodness it was the last day there- sitting across the table from her one time, all times, future time past and present ex.

The one who once gave her butterflies that now felt like sparrows.

It had been a week of neither here-nor-there, of watching the pale and muted Rusty Red Sun dive down into the cracked ground from her hotel window alone. He in his own.

Yes, she needed that magic now- just a sign.

They made it JUST in time to Atlanta- and by just in time, the bare skin of your carry-on, time enough to become a track star and make it sweating to your gate- with our without wearing the original shoes you modeled on Plane One.

They were separated there, like the parting of book from spine; of yours from mine. The week had ended, no Golden clarity, more Greysome clouds.

"I need to get on this plane," she tried on a lark at the gate. It was his plane. A surprisingly helpful ticket clerk click clacked and printed a boarding pass. And a full plane left only one open seat.

Eyes locked. Brown eyes that had always known each other anciently, full of ancient pain. The flight was long, pretty wordless.

"I almost forgot," reaching into his pocket as they touched down, "I found this on the tram to the gate... Here."

He handed her a Golden Filigreed Butterfly.

She had her sign. The tears ran down her face. He could never truly understand its significance- that her Papoo promised to watch over her in butterfly-form, that she prayed to find a gold charm to remind her to always believe in her dreams, that she lived and died a little on the hope of their love rekindled- no he could only see Opalescent tears.

Their love grew from that day, Gilded, Golden, Free as a Filigreed Wing and Prayer.

And though they did not make it to the end, he gave her butterflies once again.

"Stand in front of that sign, it looks like you," she said changing the settings on her camera to night, soft flash.

The girl took a fun pose in front of the green sign with the rainbow stars. It was some sort of ad for a bakery, or at least that's what her French told her.

It was so much colder than she had planned and her woolen green pea coat and knit rainbow striped gloves was barely enough to hold the heat of her body. Chocolat Chaud was in order.

She was probably the most colorful thing in Paris; everyone in their chic winter grey or black. She was a peacock with her feathers splayed, shimmering in the City of Lights. And now it started snowing.

Flash. Pose. Flash. Smile. Laughing. They ran underground to the safety of the Metro, covered in powdered sugar.

The snow melted from her hair, the coldness of that winter thawed, her life changed, her boyfriends changed, her desire for hot chocolate lessened...

But that picture remained; forever reminding her of how she believed in love that could light the sky, her boundaryless dreams, and the way the stars of another city made her beautiful.

I am a flower

I am a beautiful flower in this world.

If you pick me, keep me in water, or I'll die

Sing to me sweetly, or I'll die

Plant me in the ground and I might live forever.

Let me keep my roots

Feed me, Nourish me

Give me the Earth, Give me the Sky

Give me the Water and the Wind

And I just might turn into a tree

And if you are lucky,

with fecundity and fair fortune

This tree might bear your seed

And you might live forever too.

A girl who glows dazzling can become captivated by her own shadow; so fascinated she might fall in.

A shadow, heavy weighted, waiting on the floor, might become moonstruck with his lovely lamp.

He who does not value words; who wastes wondrous words, crumples pretty papers and slays sentences of beauty which were woven with devotion- Words of Love- which sweetly and eloquently pave the way to heaven- is surely headed towards the darkness.

She who screws in lightbulbs, plants seeds, writes love letters, and paints rainbows is surely headed towards the light.

He who smashes lightbulbs, but plants seeds, lets me briefly paint my rainbow then burns my brush...

The dark and the light make grey.

Grey can sparkle prismatically, create clouds of gunmetal, live on classically, calm, static.

Glitter with passion and the eternal struggle between black and white,

Shine as a diamond in the rough perhaps rough even on my finger

but,

Grey is not love.