Mist chilled his nape, as he traversed the puddled bridge; the tiny needles sought attention, but his focus was lost to the invitation below
scarred bark in the stark darkness
a hinterland of rampikes
hidden within lightning strikes beneath a wrothful sky
fauna trample ample flora
in a panic as the nimbi gaze with a watchful eye
land eroding at the banks
escape the downpour into a fresh moor as the river gorges
on the earth
icthyic dances underwater pleasure pebbles pausing
in the river bed
rapids rumble over stone rubble wreaking havoc
on their homestead
displaced to dwell where dwelled they’d not
but quelled their calls when displaced they got
the wild would wade while the wildwood bade them
over the stones now laid in the flow
in fear they tread while the water fed their fear
until they could not hear the thunder grow
~freewrite, rapid write, quick brain dump
Me: Mighty Sequoia, why is it that in all but the heaviest downpours, your roots remain dry?
Sequoia: It is because the older I’ve gotten, the more I’ve grown, and the deeper my roots burrow into memory far away from the influence of the sky. Only the most unforgiving rain can churn the memories, muddying the soil that time has buried.
Me: Mighty Sequoia, I hope one day I’ll have grown as much as you.
Sequoia: For now, little one, suffer not the shade cast by those around you, relish the warmth of life’s fleeting sunbeams; but also, cherish the rain when it falls, for it will surely strengthen your roots, and in time, you’ll have grown beyond your storms.
is the wind cheering,
while the cackling leaves
between the bare trees,
across the frozen,
Picking pareidolia posies that blossom before his eyes,
collecting clouds of magnolia from his garden in the skies
The pen hovered above the page, her hand trembling from the weight of its unwritten words; befallen to torpidity, only her tears could write upon the parchment, everything the ink never would
Empty to others, he read the tear-stained confession that was found rapaciously protecting her heart; and without a pen, he responded on the very same page, with the very same ink
He was only ever the gaps between noctilucent clouds; the spaces through which dreams escaped their masters on endless, starlit roads