Split Ends

Her hair, blonde, is twisted in the wind. The whipping strands are the colors of the shinning cropland by which she is standing. She is alone by this golden feed that is bounteous; wholesome as breast milk, as youth. Her young face is turned away, though her face is radiant like the Sun, her tresses the flames.. (Perhaps her locks are more like the hue of the gold sought by the pioneers of the 1800's Gold Rush. Then again, no..) Her face has freckles that are sorrel-dusky sun-spots as the star roasts the "spires" of the semolina(wheat). The schoolgirl is poised, the saffron spelt(wheat) is erect under the royalty of the thermic Summer empyrean(sky)-wherein a solitary cloud is a blossom, full of grace, yet a cloud is never delicate like the flower- and the girl's tale is morbid.. as is the cancer caused by the sunshine. The future Harvest is burned as the Sun kills the land..the young lady reaps an unquenchable lust 'til the cessation of zoetic puissance. Yet the flowerly nebula becomes a cloudburst.. the sunlight shimmers; her cilium(hair) metamorphoses into gilt lavaliere(jewelry)- a gleaming tiara. And the ignited pedicle(stalks) bend as the rain-drops sparkle. And yet a maiden crown of light- her fair-haired halo-travails a genesis, within which the roots of the Earth glaciate, within which her strameneous mane becomes like straw, easily snapped; and is now shivery split ends. '