It’s half past a lazy evening in April. Nyx teases as she shrouds the burgeoning clouds I can sense above me under the guise of summer dusk; but we all know there is a bounty withheld there.
Gaia holds her breath in eager anticipation bidding Eudora to release her bounty.
There is a knife yearning thickness to the air, an unrelenting stillness holding all in silent abeyance.
An aqueous melody begins at first as a whisper against newly born blades of grass but then, without words, arterial rivers are born where once there was none. Their chaotic path carving crooked pathways, delivering life to the masses.
Roots always drink deeply.
Nothing sleeps, even the crickets are dancing in the musky, deep, earthy balm. The mighty gnarled oak outside my window offers a majestic and fitting bow as leaves, once dry and curled tight promise to unfurl for morning or before, depending on how this most Cinderella of evenings will end.
Yet, there are no pumpkins here, no grand chariots pulled by mighty mice and no frog legged footman to cast their gaze upon this cinder girl all dressed in rags, with a heart to pin hopes to and a star to lend a graceful wish upon.
Bundles of liquid continue to tumble upon her head like an ethereal crown as though a message were wishing deliverance yet, there was no bottle to hide the note and no ocean to cast it into.
The rain slows to a gentle waltz and upon the stroke of midnight, the fairytale magic shall fade into memory and yet, as Aurora begins her charms in the break of day, I shall still wonder: how many songs are left in the sky?
Gaia holds her breath in eager anticipation bidding Eudora to release her bounty.
There is a knife yearning thickness to the air, an unrelenting stillness holding all in silent abeyance.
An aqueous melody begins at first as a whisper against newly born blades of grass but then, without words, arterial rivers are born where once there was none. Their chaotic path carving crooked pathways, delivering life to the masses.
Roots always drink deeply.
Nothing sleeps, even the crickets are dancing in the musky, deep, earthy balm. The mighty gnarled oak outside my window offers a majestic and fitting bow as leaves, once dry and curled tight promise to unfurl for morning or before, depending on how this most Cinderella of evenings will end.
Yet, there are no pumpkins here, no grand chariots pulled by mighty mice and no frog legged footman to cast their gaze upon this cinder girl all dressed in rags, with a heart to pin hopes to and a star to lend a graceful wish upon.
Bundles of liquid continue to tumble upon her head like an ethereal crown as though a message were wishing deliverance yet, there was no bottle to hide the note and no ocean to cast it into.
The rain slows to a gentle waltz and upon the stroke of midnight, the fairytale magic shall fade into memory and yet, as Aurora begins her charms in the break of day, I shall still wonder: how many songs are left in the sky?