SWORDFERN
Rooted, I used to think.

Profile - Archive- RSS
Notes - Email - Diaryland

Sunburn - Monday, Jun. 17, 2019
The Pilot - Friday, Jun. 14, 2019
The Artist - Thursday, Jun. 13, 2019
Salt - Thursday, Jun. 13, 2019
Nowhere to Be - Wednesday, Jun. 12, 2019


Monday, Jun. 10, 2019 @ 11:07 pm
Splendour



We walk to the park carrying bowls of ice cream sundaes. Minutes before, spooning glorious home-canned fruit, dolloping hand-whipped cream. Climbing out of M's basement suite, across the yard filled with chickens, beehives, and herbs.

We spread blankets on the grass and slowly eat our dessert as the sun sets. Someone over by the trees is playing a ukulele. A man throws a stick for a dog. A child rides the zip trolley down the slope.

The endless and rambling conversations. Seven women, all so effortlessly beautiful. One with a broken arm. One a few months away from moving to another city. A few of them single; a few of them coupled. A bartender. A freelance photographer.

I hug M goodbye, and I smell the mint that she holds in her hand, that she picked as we walked through the yard. She is soft and strong and beautiful and so utterly herself. Her hair a mess, her dress falling in folds across her hips.

I cycle home through the twilight and my heart feels full.


Roots | Shoots