Resting

She lies, quietly reclining, her flitting eyes beneath porcelain lids the only sign of life, save for slight rise and fall of maiden breast. But in her dream . . . she soars beyond her narrow, provincial world where tales recorded in approved books are her only adventures. Moonbeams beckon, luminous trails of stardust swirl gilding the fluid pathway of her flight. She wanders aloft, observing narrow streets, foreign to her wide and planted avenues where one walks protected, shielded from the rough venues of common life; there dwell the weak, the halt, the maimed, the depraved, those whom poverty and cruelty have crushed beneath ponderous feet abuse and hurt cleated, seeing an encapsulated view captured by inner eyes that sense her privileged world has lost step with humanity. Courage is conceived; resolve is awakened: a Florence Nightingale is born. Faye Lanham Gibson Copyright, May 16, 2014