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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.
End lockdown and ridiculous face mask. Yours truly, Debbie.