10-02-2021, 09:38 PM
Crania
She has left the child behind.
The child she had been.
She has grown, she has softened, she has become something else altogether. She has matured into the thing her mother had imagined she would be when she’d planted her in the roots of that tree.
If she’d had her own way, she would have sprung up from the earth fully formed, just as she is now. She had been a clumsy, excitable child, bright-eyed and eager. And now? She has eased into a better-suited skin. Porcelain and gold, soft as the spring she has come to love so fiercely.
Spring, the rebirth. The fragrance of flowers blooming as the earth thaws. And she dutifully finds the trees that belong to her, those that bear the sweet cherries. She tends to them as her mother had tended to the daughters, diligently. She calls forth their blossoms, watches them unfurl in the warm light of day. And she laughs, a sound like wind in leaves.
So, too, do the flowers in her mane and tail bloom as spring crawls across Beqanna. But it never lasts long enough before it gives way to summer and she moves through the meadow, touching her golden nose into the flowers that have sprung up from the ground, encouraging these to unfold their petals, too.
She finds the ones who suffer and breathes life back into them and they turn their faces to the sun, grateful.
And she smiles and turns her pale pink eye to a stranger nearby, smiling still, asks, “don’t you just love the summer?”
The child she had been.
She has grown, she has softened, she has become something else altogether. She has matured into the thing her mother had imagined she would be when she’d planted her in the roots of that tree.
If she’d had her own way, she would have sprung up from the earth fully formed, just as she is now. She had been a clumsy, excitable child, bright-eyed and eager. And now? She has eased into a better-suited skin. Porcelain and gold, soft as the spring she has come to love so fiercely.
Spring, the rebirth. The fragrance of flowers blooming as the earth thaws. And she dutifully finds the trees that belong to her, those that bear the sweet cherries. She tends to them as her mother had tended to the daughters, diligently. She calls forth their blossoms, watches them unfurl in the warm light of day. And she laughs, a sound like wind in leaves.
So, too, do the flowers in her mane and tail bloom as spring crawls across Beqanna. But it never lasts long enough before it gives way to summer and she moves through the meadow, touching her golden nose into the flowers that have sprung up from the ground, encouraging these to unfold their petals, too.
She finds the ones who suffer and breathes life back into them and they turn their faces to the sun, grateful.
And she smiles and turns her pale pink eye to a stranger nearby, smiling still, asks, “don’t you just love the summer?”