Round of the Floating Choir

Something so intimate, something so delicate, starts slowly and full of hope; its over in a moment. 

 

Condensed in a single point, all it takes is a single push, a gentle breeze, a light blow. Reproduction. Matter expands, spreads and dances, carried by the tides of time and space to destinations unknown; fragments of a once whole catapulted. Little clouds of potential linger in the air before making their descent. Caught in gravity, they slowly spiral to rest, embedding themselves, ingratiating themselves into their environs new. 

 

Slowly but surely, as their journey to the ground, they grow and develop. Matter accrues. Life finds a way. From the Earth, a new sun rises; it paints all in its reflected golden light as it rises above, tenacious and unstoppable. Sunlight fades to overcast maturity; their light dulled but they endure, the beauty of Janus. Only time will tell but the cycle begins anew. 

 

The hope and wishes of one becomes a forest of flora, to provide their services to scores more. Their final act, collection, before a single blow sets the wheels in motion once again. The hands of the dandelion clock turn on the wishes and whims of the universe and its inhabitants. Whispering fae carried on the drafts of hope and fate.

 

They share no secrets and tell no lies; they remain a reminder of dreams long since dreamt, hopes and prayers fulfilled and lives long lived. Generations spread, silently surviving to ensure the next and to protect that with which they were entrusted. 

 

Something so intimate, something so delicate, starts slowly and full of hope; its over in a moment.