The Empress

More about The Empress

She is holding a glass of something that remembers grass.
It glows like a quiet promise no one asked for.

The garden behind her doesn’t insist on being a garden.
It just happens—
trees standing there like they forgot to leave.

There’s a pumpkin on the table,
serious about its orange life,
as if it once had a better idea and lost it.

She looks straight ahead,
not at you,
but through the place where you think you are.

Her dress spills red
like a story that doesn’t want to end,
but will anyway.

Nothing here is in a hurry.
Even the air has decided
to stay for a while.

If she offered you the glass,
you might take it,
just to see what part of yourself
would turn green.

The Empress doesn’t explain anything.
That would ruin it.

She sits there,
completely certain
that something beautiful is happening—

and completely unconcerned
whether anyone notices.