Behind the beach and before the road, lay wild lands of marshes, reeds, brambles, gnarled oaks and disheveled mimosa trees. It is a forsaken place, where wild things go and hide, sometimes play but they always grow.
Wood Sprite stood by a fallen mimosa, her back against the trunk of a wise old oak, and waited for the wind.
The aroma of yellow mimosa blossoms hung about her hair, light as summer grass, sweet as the first pears, fresh as morning dew. She was watching in wonder fallen limbs and stripped bark hold new growth, when she heard Wind come slowly down the mountain toward the sea in waves of ruffled leaves. She closed her eyes and waited.
He came slowly on a hush and stayed a while, moving reeds, humming through the oaks, freeing dead leaves to spiral to the ground, whistling softly through branches, and playing. Then he began whispering secrets and stories of long ago.
Sprite listened as he told her of Life and Love and Death.
She did not move when he said that life and death are two faces of the same moon; that death is never wanted but must be just the same.
She smiled when he said there is no life without love, because she knew.
Still, she said “Show me”.
So Wind gathered speed and rose, whipped through the brambles, shook the mimosas, tapped reeds together, and caught myriads of scents. Cool air washed over her and around her; Wind poured himself in feathered breaths on her skin until she became a breeze, weightless, flying through silver leaves and yellow blossoms.
“Love and Life” she said smiling, her eyes still closed.
“Yes” he whispered in her heart. And she understood.