midnight foraging

a sweet pop of wild nectar between the thumb and finger of curiosity. here in the grove where fairytales are grown, she picks stories on the thorny grey-blue bush. some perfectly ripened to be baked into happily ever afters. others quite tart on the tongue, to be scripted into tears. yet too many have been picked by beaks of indigo ravens, then crushed into the settling earth. Leaving the bush with a pop. each bush carrying so many rough drafts during the spring. waiting on a warm ray and pitter patter of petrichor. to grow into turning pages made forever by ink and a thank you. then as a few fall to new in the summer, giggles of joy and hope from nostalgic summer smiles bring along bouts of shivers. for fall and winter are the most tiring and dangerous of these story bushes. yet they are the most plentiful. during fall and winter, she wraps a cloak around her shoulders and brings along her daisy basket and fresh wheat bread. ready for a day of storytelling to butterflies. a breeze carrying the scent of dewy moss and fall branches.

~she tells of such fantastical and sweet stories, calls them adventures, and ends them sooner than one would’ve liked ~