Shimmarie

She shimmered forth her words and books,
gnomonic works of art,
bright crystals, animals and plants
like filigrees of fancy freed,
not crenelated knowledge.

Wormholes and tesseracts galore
debouched like superstrings of hair
from every pore, but only on
her head were they conspicuous,
alive, and brightly pigmented.

Her mouth would open irises
of air — she dimmed the normal neon
of the times — distracting every
hermit in his lair from studies
that could never lead to her.

She never yawned except to yawn
a pellicle of green, a shroud
insectile for the shimmering
inside. We gathered, praying, looked
at orifices opening.

Faint, fractal shards of lightning filled
her eyes, pellucid like the gems
along her spine; as forest fires
leaped within her mind, weird cones
released their seeds from fleshy pines.

Our children's children were the soil
of her dreams, as arable
as ancient Ella Noy. Smooth brows
would furrow, sprouting her dendroids —
pineal glands branching like trees.