She laid her bones on an old Turkish towel,
out in the grass where the bugs remembered her.
The sun was high, hot as a sermon, and the
wind carried no sound but her own breath.
Tuned out the noise like an old AM radio.
Just her and God in the clover patch.
She opened her palms like magnolia blossoms.
The souls of her feet kissed the earth
like roots remembering.
And one by one, the garden within her bloomed.
Red rose first, low and deep…
then orange like creek water at dusk….
yellow like cornbread and courage…
green like the bayou and her wild forgiveness…
Blue like hymns she hasn’t sung in years….
Indigo like backwater secrets….
And violet like a holy hush.
Each color opened like a gate
and she could see them—
not just inside but
around her, too.
Spinning. Alive.
When she opened her eyes
the sun was crowning her,
and the clouds— real clouds,
not those stitched-up chemical lies they had spun
themselves into.
A perfect spiral
around the sun...
around her face,
around her breath,
around the center of all things.
The fake haze had been pushed out.
Like it knew not to come any closer.
And her?
She just laid there,
a barefoot prophetess
in her backyard,
knowing something old had ended
and something ancient had begun.
No one told her.
She just knew.
The way the cypress knows the flood is
coming.
The way the owl knows when to quiet.
She came back different.
Quieter.
Wider.
Stiller.
A woman spun open under a spiral sun.
A daughter of light and Louisiana mud.
A memory waking in real time.