In the dry heat of the day she is unaware of the commotion caused by her presence.
She walks unable to pass without whisper or longing.
Looking to the left oblivious of the envious eyes that search her for flaw or fault, she sets her sights on a daffodil that can no longer dance because the wind, awed, has ceased breathing.
As she draws nearer the daffodil it dances again delighted in the rhythm her feet make as they hit the ground confirming what others hope is a fantastical illusion.
Without effort she steals the glory of the day.
Abstract in her beauty she reaches the daffodil and allows it share her spotlight.
Whispers of dreams echo in the wind which refuses to breathe again.
They hope that beneath her flawless exterior lies a burdened, challenged soul.
Wishing that her beauty is some manifestation of an experiment in plastic surgeries and gallons of acidic make up, the wide mouthed women allow their tongues to touch the roofs of their mouths and utter words that speak death to perfection.
With their girlfriends they search her silky hair and unscathed skin for signs of a simple defect that will make her innocent.
The woman made guilty by her beauty.
Finding her unblemished they whisper, "crucify."
For beauty that pure can only exist in someone who has traded the purity of her soul for an adornment of beautiful flesh.
Crucify.
Beneath such perfection must lie deception and infection.
Crucify.
Dissecting her with their eyes they find nothing, so they create everything.
The gossiping mouths of the jealous, flawed women open and close creating deafening sounds that make horrific statements.
Crucify.
She is guilty.
She must pay for her transgressions and the transgressions of those like her.
In the broad daylight amidst accusation and a breathless wind she stands, enamored with her daffodil, and is crucified.
The woman made guilty by her beauty.
