She lay on her bed of clovers, the weight of body pressing delicate green to the earth, each element acting like the pages of a book. Perhaps if she were to stay this way long enough her outline would be forever preserved.
Honeybees flit around her, landing on white blossoms towering over delicate green. One lands on the tip of a manicured nail, honey on burgundy, moving on when it yields no pollen.
Movement is extinct. No rise and fall of the chest, no movement of the eye. Her ruby lips, slightly open, whisper nothing, but a swirl can be heard as the breeze filters in and then out again, moving up and over the relaxed forehead and through the silken layers of honey splayed out over thick green carpet.
In this sea of uninterrupted green she finds peace.
