Golden Glade we climb and they descend

at one year of age, she was no better than any youthful spindling of spring branch. gold weave and thin, moving with the winds of time. she was not rooted as tree or brush might be. she moved where called.

something untangled that golden weave of a young woman. a familiar perfume, a unique cologne. the scent called forth memory as it called forth flesh. spirit moved by the blood it knew.

you should not eat what you do not know, out came the words with soft spoken confidence. gained from time away, from things seen and things experienced.