Morning Glories

She was so still when the first tendrils found her
Touch her with the softest and slowest of kisses. She didn’t move
As the vine crept across the ground, found her wrists
Bound her hands and feet together with the thinnest and frailest of ropes.

It was summer, and the first blossoms opened against her chest, bloomed
Over her eyes and wove scarlet into her hair. Inside her, tiny fingers
Probed and filled every crack, wrapped around bones too dry for resuscitation,
Burst into flower where no eye could see.

"Blue Glory" Digital Photograph by Jewel Martin