In a cream colored room filled with pale yellow accents and golden knick knacks, she lays on the sunlight strewn floor, allowing the beams to wrap their tender warm strands into her honey-colored strands, warming her rouge cheeks to a glow. She is everlasting summer, a waving sunflower on a long country road. The white lace of her dress is fanned on the floor like the wingspan of a swan and she is graceful and limber and the dreamer of all beauty. The milk and honey of her life is something that is not tasted, it is breathed. Her words may sound like the chatter of birdsong in a isolated meadow, dripping in perky notes of innocence, but she is strong. She knows how the world tries to crush in it’s black and white fist, allowing no color in and certainly none out. How it begins at the roots of her days, coercing her into believing there’s no room left for honeycombed girls like herself. That’s why she’s built this room of cream and gold, for the cruel winds outside her gilded shutters cannot shatter her stained glass eyes, and they will not tug her dress higher than she allows. Her long slender fingers may paint portraits of old memories but they will always be in color. In fact, they just may be gold.