Magnolia, holly, cherry blossom; these were my homes as a child. The cherry blossom was my least favorite to climb. The lowest branch was still too high. It took a long heave to reach up into it. One day I lost my grip, fell flat on my back and lost all my wind in one blasting sigh. Down into a bed of white blossoms, not quite feathers.
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2 comments:
These are beautiful, Anne. They read like poetry. What a great idea for a blog. Or for a writer!
rebecca
They do read like poetry. And they're so transporting. Anne, you're able to set up a scenario so quickly and bring me right in.
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