https://drip.haus/ardavansol/post/13028533-42bb-4053-a6fd-931e4f4f94ac
Behind the glass of her unblinking eyes,
A thousand locked hallways begin to grow,
Where winter never falls and summer dies
Into the amber light of long ago.
She wears the iron teeth of ancient gates
Like heavy coins upon a slender brow,
A crown of heavy brass and silent fates
That pins the future to the golden now.
The small round plums hang low like frozen bells,
Untouched by wasps, unbothered by the rot,
While from her hair a subtle music swells—
The language of the things we have forgot.
Each rusted groove upon her forehead knows
Which secret cedar box remains unread,
Which heavy door against the northern snows
Was bolted shut before the words were said.
She does not speak, for speech would shake the ring
Where every silver latch finds its balance;
She only watches for the coming spring
To test the weight of her inheritance.
A pale and porcelain shore, a steady gaze,
She stands before the threshold of the deep,
The gentle warden of our wandering days,
The only one who wakes while others sleep.
https://drip.haus/ardavansol/post/aa7f34b4-a045-4b40-b3d6-ebb76d8f4484
Her hair is thick with loam and rising walls,
A village built upon a limestone ridge,
Where every chimney smokes before it falls
And every winding branch becomes a bridge.
The spires are sharp against a chalky sky,
Painted in ochre, terracotta, jade,
While down below, her wide and quiet eye
Beholds the tiny world that she has made.
There are no paths that lead into her mind,
Save through the open windows near the crest,
Where little birds of paper try to find
A place between the rafters for a nest.
She holds the weight of chimneys and of clay
As if they were as light as thistle seed,
A living hill that watches for the day
When every empty room is filled with need.
With freckles scattered like the fallen brick
And collarbones like valleys in the sun,
She lets the creeping ivy gather thick
Until the town and maiden are but one.
A monument of mortar, skin, and vine,
She stands beneath the grey, indifferent air—
A lonely goddess of the boundary line,
With all our childhood houses in her hair.
Where others wear the blossom or the leaf,
She gathers up the fruit of older earth—
The polished hulls of old forgotten grief,
The small, hard seeds of silence and of birth.
Like tiny walnuts hanging from the bough,
The golden skulls are knitted to her head,
A heavy thicket grown above her brow,
The quiet orchard of the early dead.
Her eyes are green as water in a well
That has not seen the bucket for a year,
And in their depths, a wild and ancient spell
Refuses to be broken by a tear.
She looks into the gray and empty space
Beyond the borders of the painted frame,
As if she recognized a distant face
Or heard the wind articulate her name.
The branches twist like serpents in the dark,
A crown of thorns and silver-plated bone,
Leaving their shadow like a bitter mark
Upon a throat as pale as river stone.
She is the autumn's daughter, stern and sweet,
Who counts the passing hours by the grain,
And keeps the world's great secrets at her feet,
Untouched by sorrow and unmoved by pain.
https://drip.haus/ardavansol/post/24048618-6685-4f9c-9dc2-993bdfa867a4