Bough and Feather

untangle, leave the shadow of Death behind, at Death's dark door. Filled w/ Light the Heart grows wings, flaps up into the sky free. Below, She moves, a dance, through soft, dappled sunshine. The Five Imperishable Gnostic Trees in Paradise stand along the roadside, on the Way out of the city. The noisy crowd still passes by. The storm is now faraway, retreating, invisible over the horizon, but still booming and crackling as it rolls along: Motion in Rest in a remnant, Baroque sky - royal purple, light and dark blue, grey, white, deepest golden. Back there, over one's shoulder, hills slowly, almost imperceptibly darken. W/ cold night unstoppably approaching, the good, wise serpent stirs on a black, wet bough, due pagan canniness. Nestled hidden in heavy, quivering leafage, the serpent hugs His Tree even tighter, slowly, methodically, tenderly. Gilded, scaly coils flare softly, then blaze brighter than any sun.