The House of Flora

  My life is rather small, but I strive to add volume to the days. I color in the hours by their number. I weave strands that shimmer into the trees, as if the branches have their own ribbon dancers. I hammer sea foam nails into the glistening planks of all my purple houses. Sometimes my lips are pink; sometimes they are mango. Some might consider me magical.
 I am the feather leaves that cloak themselves in leather. Some days, I am a walking poem. Other days, I am a walking question. I consider the moments, no matter how small, and I collect them in tiny baskets.
   When I die, I will be guilty of leaving behind an embellishment. I will die--not ignorant of how small that I truly am--but still unwilling to accept it. I've convinced myself there has to be some badge of honor in that. I have convinced myself...that is a rather large feat.