Her

Her hands were tools of love. The world is her stone and her hands carve into the rock with a delicate yet powerful force. To some, the impact is violent and painful, leaving behind cracks and chips in the facade of their mountain face. To most, her incisions are intricate caresses of adoration and appreciation. The curves are smooth and meticulously crafted, for wherever she grants her touch is a blessed place she cherishes with every fiber of her being. Like the warm embrace of a parent, the familiarity envelopes you without ever making her acquaintance. It is as if she were always there and it is easy to feel her warmth without apprehension. It feels as if life itself could not have existed before her, and yet you came to be in this moment without ever having seen her before. She is beautiful in the most ethereal yet chimeric way a creature can exist. Still, how could she exist? While her touch is calming and congenial, her flesh never reaches you. How, then, could we know she is sublunary? Could it be in the way her words reach your ears, or the way her art appears on the walls of the world? Should we choose to believe in her regardless, or must she prove herself secular? The selfish may wish to expose her in egotistic greed for knowledge, or the power of knowing, but the truly wise will accept her embrace with open arms and live knowing that her notion is enough.