one time

She is of unfaded blooms; risen from the cold king’s departure. It s the bustling of birds that sing over-head; rhyming of charms and rings that bring the ritual of a mating dance to them here. The season of birth; of wealth above the born animals that sing of happy families and even the departing of others. Insects that become king in the winter time now parrish, the bear that hibernates awakes; the bee’s that parrish become one and are busy to protect their queen and feed her well. It is the dedication for the seasons that string lisbeth to feel the warm golden darling against her sun-kissed skin. Staying vibrant in her colors even with the sun to not bleach her skin and bring her of light shades. It is in her silks does she rise, a touch of her toes against the dew-tipped blades and the soft cawing of the beach birds does her snout find a gaping measure to push away the last sight of. It is sung to her wide ears; a touching moment that sung her to slowly slip into the rising sun; to the sand that was soft upon her sea-salt pads did the cold touch her. The lands had yet to find a temperature to settle, still rising upon the morning sun. silk gown shifting, tresses dancing against the curve of her defined belly and extended legs. A goddess in her plea; a form of what she was here and what her mother; her grandmother before her pressed with the name.

Softly, does her body rise to the water line. The hushing of the waves; the soft sea mist that sprinkled onto her defined jowl. Wetting down her cheeks in a ways that could play on her as a child in the touch of tears. And yet; truly did she stay here with a regards of pleasure. A wipple that crossed her arms across her wide blouse, open and touching as her legs settle within the cold sand. The particles brushing against her brunette fibers and finding a residency between her fingers and toes. She watches as the sun rises; softly in his hidden disclosure from beyond the sea and the distant clouds that hide it in its nude. (Are you there, mother? Are you watching?) The soft crackling of birds over-head, the distant belly-slapping of a mature female whale in its morning feed and yet she lay there. A soft rumbling to the grab of her throat, a twitching in her eye that sun og open eyes and no close. It is here, she resides with her knees beneath her bone