She is made from buttery yellows and rich, forest queen greens. There are cotton dandelions woven through strands of wheat-colored hair, and soft fabrics upon fabrics draping and drooping in endless folds of comfort. The woods melt into her glade, up to the base of her grass throne. Lush poppies are sewn into the seams of her gown, and the ground blooms beneath the soles of her feet.
There are vibration of vivacity reverberetating beneath the layers of her skin, a buzzing of bees wings hovering in her ears, humming, humming, humming with life. The round skin of violet grapes bursts through the petals of her lips, along with the sugary splendidness of candied violet petals. She feasts on froths and fluffs of honey cakes, and dense morsels of golden sunlight.
She smiles a smile like the curve of a thigh, with a steady light pulsing in the depths of dark green eyes. Her skin holds the scent of apple blossoms and new milk and heady, sweet perfume.
She is the earth, and it wraps itself in her, running roots through her clavicle and leaves in her womb. She is full and soft and when she sings, the desert blooms. She is the whooshing of wind through goldgreenred apple trees, and the scent of new baked bread caught from the window breeze. She is the comfort of fleshy arms and honest charms, and lilies curling like daffodils, and she is the swell of sunlight that fills and fills.
And she is forever the Queen.
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