Room to room, seat to seat, she moved about her home resting, waiting, hoping, receiving—reading the words that came. Her spirit warmed. Her spirit lit, glowing as the say.
She smiled in the recognize, belief of living see that was impossible to know; and, yet, the story told. She covered her body in guard of a gown, comforted in its loose and light in warmth of the evening light; moving chairs and chasing sun, warmed in window once again.
She thought to night. Would it last in stay—wondered on telling and the way. Beneath the gown, she warmed. Through its covering she glowed—alive—believing spirit known.
She looked to the skin of her open arms, amber in the falling sun; a softness and gentleness in last hour of the light, one she’d resurrect in light and burn of candlesticks; gentle in tone, soft of a heat, near-casting of their gleam and her body close beside, amber lit of skin as then but room falling to shadow.
How would it be in the change of light, difference from day to night? Would her body still gleam? Would her spirit still light, illumed of the giftings and close-held tight?
She gazed on the sun, her amber of skin, butterflies and the low-keep warmth.
Another chair, another room, in wait for words anew.
Words arrived. She read them then, warmed and glowed again.