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Winter melts to ashes and now we walk where hillocks dip like pillows, where a warm pocket of air keeps the scent of spring beauties for itself. Sensitive vetch so easily shocked folds under a feather yet the earth trembles where trout lilies shove.
Buds stall on lilacs and beeches, and scrimmed light comes even to nightshade, but the Devil will not tend this garden tonight. Tonight under a thin canopy, a roof made of sticks, look overhead to the stars. Watch one fall--see the past flash behind in one bright stream?
“Remember,” written in runes.
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Author's Note
I wrote this for Walpurgis Night, April 30th. It hasn't been previously published.
Other stories by Dianne McKnight-Warren
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A delicate sensibility rendered with gentle precision. *
Your writing is exquisite, Mathew. Even your comments are beautiful.
The natural old is a wonder of which you've written exquisitely here. A sky filmic shooting stars from me.
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That's "world" not "old".
Sheesh.
Thank you, Charlotte. Just read "Milk for Free." Very cool how you did that. So, especially, thank you Charlotte. Looking forward to reading more.
What Charlotte said. A very visual piece. **
*This is gorgeous.*
*, Dianne. Your imagery paints a gorgeous scene and anticipates a wondrous night.
Thank you all for your encouragement. I really appreciate it.
"Sensitive vetch, so easily shocked, folds under a feather, yet the earth trembles where trout lilies shove."
Language beautiful to behold.
It's great when someone new favs your work and you discover that you genuinely like their work also :)