Her curse was our period of glory.
            Everything became so quiet—no galling chatter
of humans, no jarring barks             of dogs, not even the buzz of a fly.
Only the subtle hum of our parents—sky and earth,
stretching       our    verdant vines,                       plush flowers,                 and
                                                      prickly thorns
                            between         them                 endlessly.
Oh! And our roses—petals soft as the feathers on a goose—thick as the bark
of the old oak,           to speak of their colors does nothing.
              How can one explain the shades of sunrise? Not pink, not orange
but a pool of both.                   Fibers reflecting light,         whirling   a
                                                                                                  feral brilliance.

    After the kingdom re-awakened,
    we were once again tamed. Cut back.
    Torn apart. Thorns carefully discarded.
    Thousands of our precious
    flowers scattered throughout
    the courtyard for the princess’ wedding
    day. Trampled on. Left to fade.