She is of fig tree limbs and feral heart, a wispy silhouette that breathes through yellowed eyes. She is a witness to the golden drops of sun the forest ceiling filters, billowy hands outstretched to savour the breaking of dawn.
But, with her head towards shards of light and her being among evergreens, she bathes not in warmth but in the woe of her aching heart. Maybe sleeping among thorned roses and fanged wolves had turned it into a thistle.
