novembersvisions

United States

c.

s h e / h e r
poet + dark academic

Message from Writer

perhaps i come from heaven.
perhaps i know no other realm.

le jardin

August 2, 2020

FREE WRITING

7
The garden was breathless today -- serene as ever, resplendent with the melody of songbirds, but possessing some blushing quality that filled the girl in turn as she walked through shadowed ferns. The pink flowers shone in the sunlight, unconscious of the girl’s luminous gaze upon their petals. The summer heat of midday had quickly fallen on the landscape; in the sun, a golden halo seemed to form on her hair. She ducked back into the shadows. 

From the day she had first visited the garden, it had whispered secrets born of the oaks. The words were wispy like smoke. They carried an almost ashen sheen and faded into the air before the girl could truly grasp their meaning. The garden was unlike any other place she had seen in her lifetime -- the plants writhed with preternatural vivacity, even in the winter when frost lay on the evergreens. She was inextricably drawn to the gentle branches of the trees, to the atmosphere that radiated calm and yet also a wild, untamed energy.

She retreated to the very corner. Here, she was surrounded by dark green foliage, submerged in the most tranquil energy of the garden. The girl stared up at the sky that reflected almost indigo. The deeply inscribed lines of poetry echoed in her mind, still as constant as the sunset. Long ago, she had contemplated the mysteries that always floated near her grasp. She had never realized them completely.

Past the marble bench where she rested now, the sun’s embrace intensified, casting its golden heat. The girl nestled amongst the plants like a swan. She remembered the floating remnants of music that haunted her thoughts sometimes; she leaned languorously back against the bench.

A phantom, fleeting sense of restlessness possessed the girl for a moment. She sprung up and brushed past the ferns. Passing by the roses, she reached a hand out. The delicate skin of her wrist snagged on thorns. She spun around, astonished, and stared at the scarlet wound. She felt the world suddenly spin; she was sinking into the depths of that which resembled an ocean. She thought back to the blushing shadow of the garden, and sorrow welled in her heart. She gazed upon the thorns that had injured her. Inside herself, she felt a rough patch of red — a bruise upon her soul. The girl began to cry. The tears stung as they landed on her wrist, but she hardly noticed. The scar that had formed was too great.

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  • August 2, 2020 - 6:35pm (Now Viewing)

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2 Comments
  • Anne Blackwood

    Ethereal is the perfect way to describe this piece. I'm absolutely in love with it, especially the first line.


    4 months ago
  • inanutshell

    wow this is beautiful, and also kind of ethereal. love the imagery here!


    4 months ago