The body of land was shaped like a tea cup, full with a steaming sash. Inside the handle lay a bay, a crescent lagoon engulfing hues of blue and green effervescence. The shores of the inner lagoon shimmered, the salty sand crystalline and white. Flamingos, pink and stoic curtsied to each other flecking the shores with crimson pink, the color of my mother’s lips. Bending like an orchid stem, the handle stretched around the bay, an isthmus holding her wildlife in a soft embrace. 

The rest of the island, thick and sturdy, housed trees and hills with dark and secret caves. These rooms housed wild bats and spiders whose eyes had yet to place themselves on any passersby other than occasional curious lemur or armadillo. Long vines coiled around boulders and trees were held taught by these swinging black and white primates, their small toes strong in their grip.

Below, a waterfall, singing her song, solitary and perfuse. Dainty swimmers dash in the depths of the large deep pool that lay below, their colors a rainbow to the senses, glittering and happy. The trees that towered above were home to insects and birds of various colors and sounds, all contributing to the orchestra played on this small solitary cup; alone, yet filled with life.

The steam that arose from the porcelain figure consisted of rocky outcroppings, home to manatee and surrounded by the stingray, as if protecting the island’s mouth with strong grey eyes, and stealthily hidden movements deep beneath.

All around her edges were cliffs, home to birds and their precious eggs, alive and hidden in the sea so vast. From a distance, the waves carried the smell of greenery, and small hazy tufts of clouds only, marked the place where her body lie, a tea cup, solitary and free, mysterious and refined, alone and with so many secrets of beauty one would be overwhelmed with joy were they to discover it.