04-08-2017, 04:24 AM
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Summer comes.
Spring was a freckle on the nose, warmed from the deep frost of the winter, and awoken with the birth of babies. Children, happy and bounding, reminding Beqanna yet another year has passed. Who tells their time by any other marker than by birth? Spring was birth, it was fertility rising from the dark cocoon of days passed.
But Sunday was a summer child in the same way she was a fall child or a spring child or a winter child. She was one with nature, communing with the forces of the ground and the trees just as easily as with the frost and the weather. The health of the plains - a land both barren and hopeful - curled itself against her skin like a shawl and threatened to make her whole. It was the missing piece, the part that fit the whole.
But she'd be nowhere else than these swaying grains, leaning into the sun - eyes closed. A witch in her natural habitat.
Spring was a freckle on the nose, warmed from the deep frost of the winter, and awoken with the birth of babies. Children, happy and bounding, reminding Beqanna yet another year has passed. Who tells their time by any other marker than by birth? Spring was birth, it was fertility rising from the dark cocoon of days passed.
But Sunday was a summer child in the same way she was a fall child or a spring child or a winter child. She was one with nature, communing with the forces of the ground and the trees just as easily as with the frost and the weather. The health of the plains - a land both barren and hopeful - curled itself against her skin like a shawl and threatened to make her whole. It was the missing piece, the part that fit the whole.
But she'd be nowhere else than these swaying grains, leaning into the sun - eyes closed. A witch in her natural habitat.
SUNDAY
never put your faith in a prince. when you require a miracle, trust in a witch