She has been lying here long enough that the meadow has stopped distinguishing. The daisies come to the edge of her mouth without hurry; the lilies lean the way things lean toward what does not resist them. Her lashes have gone blue and feathered, and it is impossible to say whether the flowers learned that color from her or she from them.
This is what happens when a face stops defending itself. It is taken in. Not devoured — included. She is not sleeping in the field. The field is sleeping, and she is the part of it that dreams.
