You would not recognise her today.
Yesterday
she was a bundle of twitching nervous skulduggery.
Now
she sits silently,
eyes closed —
green eyelids surveying the territory
that only the blind can see.
On her head,
a crown of twigs and leaves,
sprouting their earthly connection
across her brow.
In her hand,
a strange purse —
round,
decorated with a pentacle —
her only connection
to the world of commerce.
Back then
she was well connected,
sure,
but not in a good way.
In those troubled times
she was managing financial markets,
but far away
from managing her stress.
Now
she sits
deep in verdant green woods,
no longer apart
from the world
that wanted to destroy her.
She is finally free
from all that noise,
and all the fuss
that tore at her body,
at her purse,
and finally her soul.
Her heart
is now flesh —
a deep, glistening, juicy red thing,
filled with the lifeblood
of compassion.
Her hands,
once grasping,
now still.
Arms resting
across her belly
in peaceful reverie.
How?
The stranger
is to blame.
He came one night
and shook her heart.
She knew
he meant no harm.
In his eyes
lay pools of salvation,
his lips
a loving caress.
Oh —
and those hands.
Rough
like the bark of a tree.
Calloused,
flecked with tiny cuts.
But oh,
did they stir her.
More than stirred —
she was shaken
to the core.
And suddenly,
miraculously,
she understood.