The wind builds to a gentle crescendo, a natural orchestra whose whistle obscures the crickets, the birds, the words from her lips, said with a smile as she draws her knees up to her chest. Pale arms wrapped around, head and hair turn to look out at the glowing pond. Impish and dancing light glistens and bathes the ground, her skin, the trees. I go to her, sit beside her.
"How long will the sun shine?" she asks, looking at it's reflection, a child's statement.
"Forever and ever," I say, and touch her shoulders. They're cold, and my own flesh feels scratchy and worn compared to hers, goosepimpled. She nods, looks at me. She'll never be a beauty for the world, she doesn't have the look; her eyes are wonderous. Sleeping and sanctified, she is unaware of how beloved she is to me.
And it is enough of an answer: she nestles into me, the sun halfway through its meticulous descent to world and earth. No moon is present to preside over the pallid scene; all color slowly stolen, until only the array of Heaven's luminous stars crown the sky.
The wind blows over us, across the pond.
3 comments:
This is so lyrical...I know I'm going to enjoy it here :).
When I write, most important is trying to convey a feeling. I want a winter night to feel cold, or a festive party to make the reader feel the joy that the characters exude, or in this case, peace in an idyllic setting.
lovely.
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