Joan Of Arc

(On this day in 1431, Joan of Arc was burned at the stake in Rouen, France. She was 19 years old.)

You float in cool water now, just another little girl riding her toy boat into a sea of dreams. Your skirt hitched up, wading knee deep in the stream. And the only voice you hear is the whisper of the breeze.

You walk through cool grass now, and the dew sparkles on your bare legs. Your basket is filled with chamomile and lavender and one perfect white rose. And the smoke is rising from your own chimney, smelling of fresh baked bread.

You shimmer in cool air now, the rain falling gentle while you dance in circles smiling up at the sky. Hands clapping, skirt twirling, raindrops glittering in your hair. Your bare feet tramping a little circle in the sand on the edge of the sea. And even the marsh grass is laughing, at how happy you look.

And you swear by the salt spray and the white sand, and you swear by the raindrops, and you swear by the neon halos piled high on your grave, that deep in your heart you forgive them.