They walked the path walked many times before, bare of foot before skirted daffodils and a bevy of dewy chickweed winking light and breeze.
The stream flowed of sacrificed snow, pure as light, clear as dawn in a doe's eye. With hands held, he led, her oculars left behind and what she felt and what she heard seemed a universe of life, of sensation, as mysterious as the bloom, breaking ground, stems stout as standards won, reaching forth victorious, bright of blooded hue, proudly raised in defiance of winter, rock and bird.
Sat, they did, side by side among the clover lush where boulders looked as glass and the stream whispered like wind down the mountain, over their toes and past the cottage. And in his hand, his heart, beat, what need not be said, could not be spoken for the word is never the act and the act bears no word of sacrilege.
And this is how it was for a long time. Hands held, faces to the sun, the tickle of hair in the breeze. There were sighs. And still, he spoke not.
Tell me, she asked, tell me why, here, now.
Because, he said, what flows eternal from the mountain, what flows pristine before our toes is as the language I find not of the tongue, nor the hand, but a language of sun, of water, of the season that stands not still, as neither the day nor this stream. It is, he said, all that I have not the ability to say, of me, for you.
Em tilted her head in that way of the blind when moved of divine force, divine as sun and wind and rain. And as rain, her cheeks shown in love such to make flowers weep and birds cry and Trev lean.
As he did, as did she. And what parted, closed, and where there was light, only love.
6 comments:
What more can be said...sigh
Sigh . . .
Am in awe of such beauty.
So much so, as always the desire risen to tell you just how inspired is your writing and since words are not my forte, my mind drifts and I wish today that I was in the neighbourhood, for I would ring your bell, take you by the hand into your yard, have you sit beneath the magnolia tree and in my mind, when I read these words back to you, via the inflection, emotion, via the expressions upon my face touched by the expressions within, you would hear and see and feel these words with all your senses, just as we do when we read. In other words, I hope that you know just how beautiful this is. Just take the first two sentences. I feel like my heart is in free fall, even as I read them for the 7th time now, the loveliness and effect has not diminished in the slightest. Rather with every read, throughout, your work only shows itself more favourably.
I have to go out knowing right now I want to write and write upon this post. I hope those words will still be bubbling when I return.
Sigh. You are an amazing writer.
bare of foot before skirted daffodils and a bevy of dewy chickweed winking light and breeze. This is pure seduction. Those who appreciate, certainly those who love, but even those who have no relationship with literature would surrender joyfully and wholly. This is words and tongue making love, folding over one another, held, moved, turned. Reading aloud is delight, pure, compelling, my lips feel as though they have been kissed as I come to the end, as though I have tasted, eyes close momentarily, a breathy sigh emerges as the loveliness, like oxygen, streams to every cell, every sense, every corner of ones being..
After which comes The stream flowed of sacrificed snow, pure as light, clear as dawn in a doe's eye., which is so lovable, I can do nothing but declare.
Bear in mind, by this stage, not only has there been two (1.5) marvellous sentences, but they began with a path, walked once more as many times before. I feel hung on a cloud beneath the moon, a million stars scattered before me like a carpet. Like diamonds they appear, longing, asking to be admired. You have an amazing ability to show a million stars in the short distance between capitol and period, or comma as the case is this time.
(girls are being slow in getting ready, so I was able to write a little more. More later)
So much can be said without anything being said. I reread this this morning. Again, SIGH...I would like to sit amongst the Japanese Magnolia and Bradford Pear, sit in silence. Taking in the beauty, the smells, the warmth of a loved one sitting next to me, again in silence. Life gets so busy that sometimes I forget to stop and appreciate the surroundings. Another Sigh and I will sit...in silence...and possibly reread this post many times...
TIGHT HUGS
hhHH
Thank you both for your very kind words. This chapter was written on pure emotion with tears in my eyes and as such crosses the line, I think, in a spot or two, but I'm not in the mood to revise so it will stand as is.
These Trev and Em chapters, snapshots of a relationship, tiles in the mosaic, hope to capture the bloom and the blooming of two souls swimming in each other, to capture those moments that twenty years hence would be seen as the essence of life, those very moments that seem so ordinary when lived, those moments that seem at the time to be moments we could live over and over again and that only in hindsight do we see how extraordinary they were. There is no moment that is not life, even those moments we think we are just waiting for whatever comes next.
The image I took yesterday--the bloom of a Bradford Pear, we have thousands of them in Franklin. The entire tree blooms and it is such a surreal sight to see these trees on fire with white flower, almost, it seems from a distance, to be covered in snow. Thanks again for the very kind comments. Always appreciated. :-)
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