Bloom

Bloom was more than one color, or three. No,
she was a myth spun from soft fur and green
pea plants, simple things that saw the golden grass
and white picket fences and let them be.
Philemon and Baucis tried to guide the
chariots from unnecessary heights,
but they soared out, further than we could see.
They became solar sentinels, watching,
just out of reach, waiting for us to fall.
Unknown amounts were lost when the Fire
covered Quiet, and Quiet covered the Earth.
The burning Bloom peeled the Harmony off
like skin and leaped and danced, singing its last
song. Then, it disappeared, its form intact.
We all stopped and watched, our eyes toward the sky.

The world still remains; changed, not the same.
The good is too old ... everything was gold.