The day after the mistral the winter sun rose clean and triumphant above the horizon.
Some stray clouds dressed in purple for the occasion, and the pepper tree put on some crimson ribbons.
Two planes traced pink vapor trails in a spotless sky over the Med who was lying still in faded jeans, spent from yesterday’s wild dance of frenzied stomping, jumping, and slapping, to the wind’s rhythm.
I watched the planes’ trails morph into feathers, festooned cords, and ribbons, then masquerade as waves on a beach before vanishing. All that time wondering … will I ever be beautiful enough for you.
A mourning dove flew by in a flash of copper wing, landed on the roof, looked at me and said nothing.
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You write about the natural world around you in a way that I can only dream about. Wonderful
Thank you. This is no small praise.
You weren’t listening. The dove said:
Get up off that wet ground.
Get your eyes out of the clouds.
Get those rag tag jeans off.
Get in the shower and get that romping and stomping of the night before off.
Get on a bit of makeup.
Then maybe he will think you are beautiful.
Some of us think that Emmy, like the Med, is always beautiful.
A restless spirit, a poetic soul, an eye for nature’s glory and the ability to conjure magic from words.
Arretes jamais, cherie, tu es un artisan des mots Anglais, des mots Francais et des mots d’amour.
Mon coeur va exploser et je vais perdre la tête…
You are, after all, the Miraculous Mistress of the Morning…
Thank you. That is superlative, but I love the mmm.
So like you, those layers of meaning you do so well.
This was a really nice, very descriptive imagery and I liked it a lot. Nice job !
Thank you. I do try:-)