House of Gold

Vanilla light ignites in the corner of her room
and she, awake now and poised at her bed’s edge,
studies the bold beacon that hails her
like one unnerved by the beauty of a child
born with one blue eye, one green.

Far to the east,
the frankincense trees lift their gnarled limbs
in gestures of stoic repose.
Slashed, they shed resinous tears
that harden like scars on jagged wounds.
The fires are already stoked
whose steam will coax perfume
from milky soft gum.

In her room, the girl gathers herself
for the onslaught of her affirmation.
The house begins to shrink around her
as she rises, crosses toward the white eddies
streaming in the darkness, and kneels.
Earth labors to bring forth gifts
and the room swells with the scent
of lemon and vanilla and bitter smoke.

But the girl has no grandiloquent gestures,
only the openness of her face
still rapt by the overshadowing beacon
and the stillness of hands resting on her midriff
while she awaits the golden change within.