Butterscotch and Wine

The flames of the stake perhaps do not purify,
but they do release, from flesh even as strong as hers,
and the weight of snow and days and years and sleep,
and the cruelty that comes down so thoughtlessly.
When she was a girl, just a moment ago, but another life,
she danced hand in hand in circles with the other girls
around The Fairy Tree, in the woods with Edenesque light,
free for a time, to laugh and dream of trifling things.
Free to climb it’s height where she could hold the sun
in the palm of her hand, and kiss the beams of light
that were butterscotch and wine, that soothed her
as she saw her nation burn, just down the road, just out of sight.
She kneeled once at it’s roots, the tree between heaven
and older realms and Eden and the waking world, loss and warmth,
God wrapped in the silver blade pulled from a Pagan breast,
and she felt the warmth of a better sun, as her angels came.
And no more trifles, now more play in the height of the tree,
though a better sun shown ever on her face, that she could not
hold in her hand, or taste it’s sweetened beams, but knew it’s grace,
as she went of to war, shorn of pride, but brighter than all the stars.
As she slept, among her soldiers, course and holy men, brave and tired,
she dreamed of The Fairy Tree, which was another tree in Eden,
that we did not choose to eat from, but just the one that showed our nakedness,
but not the life that could come from a better sun, held only in God’s hand.
And as the end came, on that stake, on that hungry and devilish fire,
her work done but her place among loved and trusted ones taken,
placed among vipers that speak in holy write and sacred scripture,
who bleed out the true and pure with the edges of words of love.
The Dove emerged from her heart that stayed whole and true and red,
and her soul with it to the sky, to the clouds all the way to that better sun,
to it’s light everlasting and all the weight of war and death and blood
were washed by blood, and she was free again, free and a child, free
And again she was at the roots of The Fairy Tree, The Tree of Life,
the better sun bright through it’s branches, and faith given over to warmth,
know that she was home, and the fruit was given and received, precious communion,
and in Eden played and wandered, and no more weight was on her forevermore.
She was a child. She was free. She was eternal. She was unashamed.
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