I would often walk through that dry forest, the light dappling my skin, the sun an intermittent strobe, never enough warmth leaking through. I would sit or lie in the bends the trees made.
And wait for my love to come to me. And when he arrived, warmth would come through the leaves and he would cradle me as the trees had done.
And soon the forest would no longer be dry, seemingly half dead, we would wake it and give it life. For those years, for that time.
Now I return and it is dead to me once more.
And wait for my love to come to me. And when he arrived, warmth would come through the leaves and he would cradle me as the trees had done.
And soon the forest would no longer be dry, seemingly half dead, we would wake it and give it life. For those years, for that time.
Now I return and it is dead to me once more.
A nostalgic and poignant tale nicely done.
ReplyDeleteOh no, now that's really sad... well written, indeed.
ReplyDeleteI like the way you intertwined the ebb and flow of love with the ebb and flow of the life of the forest.
ReplyDeletejanet
Dear Jim,
ReplyDeleteIt seems that in the midst of my crazy work schedule last week, I was remiss in welcoming you to Friday Fictioneers.
Well done piece on the cycle of love and life.
Shalom,
Rochelle
Thank you, Rochelle!
DeleteLooking forward to writing more.