Time for storytelling: "She"

In her transparent twinset nightgown, she ventures out barefoot into the garden and opens her arms to the wind. The robe with small butterflies’ embroidery hinting timidly to pink, slides down off her shoulders. She inhales deeply, closing her eyes as if to open her third one. Her bust rises to welcome the void. She becomes wind caressing the butterflies’ embroidery. She is a number of trees swaying in desire. She is a cloud veiling, unveiling the moon. She is and she is not. She is all that is: ever changing and ever present. A tingling starts climbing from the soles of her feet as if a line of kisses unleashed by Mother Earth. Is she a love letter getting ready to be opened with trembling hands and racing heartbeats? She opens all her eyes to read what is. Another tingling starts in her crown chakra. She opens her right palm upward and her left palm downward while her arms are still in the same position: extended. As if reciting Shams and Rumi rhythm within her own bloodstream, she understands at that point the trinity of Oneness. Emptying herself from herself, she becomes a channel. All the whirling of cosmic love passes through her tiny body to connect what is below to above, what is visible to what is not. She hears a certain hum of a queen bee residing in an updo hairstyle of Lord Shiva. She smiles and goes back inward. Incense.