Here they are still and silent. Here they are statues.
A warm winter rain falls on the grey patio. The winding tree twists around a white terrace. It was once white, anyway, but now it is stamped with mildewed moss and lichen. Weaving vines cover up the terraces, knotting into a low ceiling of twig and sage. Their leaves droop down like hanging sap. A black wooden table is slick from moisture in the collecting wetness.
There an elephant centerpiece reins as king. In full glory complete with grey stone river rock, his trunk arches up above his forehead, triumphantly in trumpet. His back is saddled with a Persian blanket and a display of silken sunflowers. Blinding yellow, they are his crowns.
Amongst the green and brown, dashes of pink petals shoot from a bush by the weathered fence. They shine proudly, all within eyesight of the tusked king. Each basks in the primo location, their status grappling above the rose bushes. Those August queens are quiet now, preparing their roots for spring. The humble brown stalks finger out like wooden claws reaching for attention but let the bitty petals take the spotlight by the king.
Close by, a young faery lady meditates in rocky blue. She looks at her knees, resting in mid air. Her wings are lifted in silent, slow flutter. Her hair shadows the rest of her face. A crown of it circles her forehead. She misses home and yet that is where she sits right now. On the fence is a pooled mirror. It is a perfect circle. It is a gateway into the next universe. That is where she came from, she and the elephant king. On the other side, they are most welcome. Here they are still and silent. Here they are statues.
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