A Sketch of the Librarian on a Saturday Morning:

 
She is dreaming of the restless desert sand that dances in the wind and taps on the strata at dawn. She hears an echo weaving through the dunes of loneliness and regret. She is the trumpet of soundless birds and the burning pages of Winter snow. She believes there are elemental rings mapping stories of how love is yoked in variations of turns. Her spine is stiff in the golden slant of the morning. Her head cap appears to be levitating as a glowing nimbus of flame. Her shoulders are the hinges that hold the hem of night between the mull of muslin and the promise of an untarnished evergreen. Her orange-flip lipstick smattered on the flyleaf of memories that tilt between the quake and hold of dark and dangerous fairytales. Outside her window pane, she hears a comforting sigh. A swallow’s chest flutters as it hoists a worm nigh. She is mesmerized and I am aware that the mechanisms for laying down battles are rife with wild rivers and folded hands. Her presence is tattooed on my own body of thoughts while I wonder if anyone would ever want to love her. Or will she return to the daffodils and the frosted waters of the forest instead of being here, waiting for someone, who will never come? 
 
©️Winter Dawn Burns