I am three, she said,
And always have been.
Contrariwise,
We three are one
Ever united.
The first treads lightly upon the surface, and not even a grain of sand shifts at her passing. Her hair, unbound, ripples like wheat-stalks, bending in the breeze and sunlight. Cloud-like she, substantial-seeming, yet, should you reach out fingers to grasp her, she will flow around you and through you, over and beneath you, leaving your hands empty and your skin chilled to goose-bumps.
Love is but a word to her, without context or meaning. She is pure, with the purity of ice or diamond, white, cold, hard, incorruptible. Unsullied ever, untainted, for none can soil what they may not touch.
She is bright with the beauty of edges and brilliants, in all its sparkling terror.
This is one.
The next stands firm in her footsteps. She has lips, red and intoxicating as fine, aged Burgundy wine and a fragrance of apricots and incense. Honey, she is, smooth, flowing, and golden; sweet on the lips and soothing to the soul.
Love, to her, is heat and pleasure, a feast to be fallen on and shared recklessly, wantonly. She is lush, vibrant, a Spanish garden in full summer, shot through with oranges and purples and pinks to dazzle the eyes and seduce the soul into endless dancing. She reaches out her hands to gather and hold, to keep and to nurture, to charm and to caress.
Hers is the beauty of flame and sunsets, which warms and devours.
And this is two.
The third, the last, moves not, yet her stillness is not inaction. Her eyes are grey as sorrow, and as deep as desperation. Her texture, parchment; scribed on every surface with wisdom, written starkly by experience’s bitter ink. She stands like a beacon or a monument, freely offering truth and insight to any who dare to seek it.
She knows love, in all its guises, but feels it now as pain and loss, an emptiness left by the passing procession of all that once filled her heart. And yet, she is not angry nor twisted, but, like the mountains, calmly accepting of time’s sure, slow erosion. A tall forest she is, not touching, not demanding attention or notice, but standing ready, always, to use all that she is and everything she has grown to know to protect and shelter those who come to her.
She wears the beauty of darkness, owns the subtle play of shadows and the soft gentleness of rest.
This is the last
Take one, take all, for they cannot be divided – to try to separate any one from the others would be to destroy everything.
I am three, she said
And we three are one
Embrace all, she said
Or else, embrace none.