The Art of Living Regally

Friends will die on the 21st dawn but I have found another way to live—forever.

Art-bomb a canvas.

The sun strokes, emanates warmth. The accordion’s bellows may or may not extend, the woman will weep at the rainbows she can’t see, but I’m in a dilemma. If the girl sees me, she will clap her hands and shatter my wings or she may say, wow, and both the woman and the artist will whisper: stay still.

Stay still. I behave. Because I want to live. I don’t have to be a daytime star. Reds, yellows, pinks, greens, oranges, purples and blues—blue sky—always do. Not all wings are alike. Birds are not butterflies. Feathers are not scales, but I see he is painting me. It’s good to be small and add a serendipity moment to it all.

The painting is complete. It’s time for me to live on or I will be crushed in the folds of her cloak. I will fly to Isabella’s house. Perhaps sit in between sliced blood oranges.

I will nurture Noah’s dove too. Sit on its flustered white plumage.

Later, when art needs a companion, I will choose words. William Wordsworth will speak to me:

"I know not if you sleep or feed."

Neither. I let him imagine.

Annette Wynne knows me so well. I do think and speak to flowers.

And Alice Freeman Palmer revives my weary wings whenever someone reads me by virtue of her heart-filled words, for she understands me well when she trusts me to help her understand:

"The Eternal Mystery."