Le Cygne

Luna

Lilies, Daffodils, and Peonies spring

To life wherever Her feet caress the bare earth.

The Wind whips around Her,

Whispering praises into Her blonde waves

The Sun shines down upon Her,

Trying desperately to match the radiance of Her soul;

It used to be so bright, before Her...

Now what good has it become;

Another dull star to litter the Heavens?

She puts them all to shame with the modesty

Of a meek maiden.

With a bashful blush, She puts

The Sun to shame, brushes the flattery of the Wind

Behind Her ear with the hair it blew askew,

And lulls the budding flowers back to sleep beneath the sod.

The Sun- overcome with a sudden, fiery envy-

Boils with a jealous rage, stifling the very air She breathes.

Still, She goes on with a smile on Her delicate face

As though she isn't fighting for her every breath.

Frightened by the Sun's enmity towards Her,

The Wind rushes across the sky, gently goading air

Back into Her needy lungs.

It wishes no ill-will upon Her,

Does not contest Her might or Her moxie

Like it's sister Sun so does.

The Seedlings slither from their snug sanctuaries

Beneath the soil and snake skyward, protecting

Her from the harsh, hateful rays of Sun and instead

Shading Her in a patchwork of flowers of every shape and size

And offering Her safety in muted, kaleidoscope sunbeams.

She cooes to the Greenery and strokes the petals of shivering

Carnations and Wildflowers,

Basking in the Breeze that whistles through the cracks and gaps

In the flowerscape.

She is astounded by their kindness and

Perplexed as to why they would go to such lengths for Her.

She does not understand what She is.

"Pure, pure" the Wind hushes,

"Seraphic," the Flowers agree, "godly, indeed."

"False God," the Sun snarls, "impure, unclean heathen.

You are no holy Angel. You are no God. You are nothing.

You have the Breeze and Trees fooled; they know not

Who you are, liar, but I do. You are a devil, a trickster hellion."

"Why must you call me such things?" She implores,

A tear rolling down her cheek, gathered up eagerly

By Hyacinths and Heathers. "Have I done you wrong?

I am no Angel nor God, surely, but nor am I

A monster. I am merely a girl, you see,

No trickery or spell have I cast to change who I am

And thusly I cannot understand why you have

Demonized me so, nor can I fathom why your

Kin have made me a Saint.

I am not special.

I deserve neither view you've bestowed upon me.

Forgive me, I am not ungrateful, merely unworthy."

The Sun bows westward in shame, retracting its light.

So too, do the Wind and Flora shy away from Her.

She nods, and wipes the tears from Her face.

Her smile returns, "Now you see; it is you who are Holy,

Who are hellish and brilliant and frightening. You who are

Fraught with fear of inadequacy are, in truth,

Majesties to behold and more powerful

Than your wildest dreams."

They shy farther from her words.

"But remember to be humble," Cautions She, "No gifts

Should give you sense to be haughty.

Be kind. Be courteous. Be free of judgement."

She feels the warm glow of the Sun's thanks,

The gentle whoosh of the Wind ruffling her hair

And the Lilies, Daffodils, and Peonies curling to crown her

Before they are all gone from her,

Leaving her in the darkness of the night,

Barren soil beneath Her feet 

And stars above Her head.