There Is A Woman At The Top Of The Stairs.

There is a woman at the top of the stairs.

Her brunette hair up in a bun, tiny tendrils caress her slender neck. Her smile is a beaming light, her almond brown eyes have found yours.

I climb the stairs, others evaporate away into nothing. All attention fixed on her.

I cross paths with a glorious light.

Hurry up and slow down, don’t act a fool, don’t trip on the stairs, hold on to the railing, get a grip.

It’s too late.

All I could manage was a sheepish, “Hello.”

She smiled ever so brightly, and said, “Hi.”

Her smell a flower garden of repast, her hair a raven’s nest of alluvial wisps.

The moon raising her up to the highest.

The Selenite orb enshrines the glowing city in a whimsical beauty. I walk into the future.

The angels are alive and well.

There Is A Woman At The Top Of The Stairs.