Winding Road

The road, as a ribbon, wound through my hair.

The fury of life
is depicted in its fortes,
unleashed by its powers,
drawn up from within—
while others hesitate
you roar from the desert,
kinetic eyes staring into the sun,
mimetic at an oasis of finery.

The wallpaper climbed like a vine,
and you were its flower;
in iris hues, warm and delicate,
you rebirthed prestige
from within a silver frame,
wore each bud,
and named each child
after you.

Emily Isaacson

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