Woods and Whisperings

Read novels in a cozy chair
Watch the nature from my long window
Sip my mug of hot chocolate
Sing beautiful repertoire in Latin
Paint in oils on linen
Dance all night long
And walk through the trees, enjoying the crackles of leaves and melodies of birdsongs.

I see the mist, feel the chill on my cheek, and fear nothing.
My sweater is long and loose. There is a blue tinge to the air and I can smell the greenness of these woods. My heart beats powerfully with the thrill of intrigue and mystery. I am a little girl, stumbling through a forest, wondering what's about to happen next. It's a secret, it's an enchantment, it's a garden all my own.

I hum a new tune, thinking about Mozart and how I wish he were here so I could appreciate his genius and his struggle. Everything I see is a painting, or a potential one. I can't wait to get back to the studio and take this treasure before me into my own palette. I will recreate serenity in a medium that isn't quite permanent but still satisfies.

This solitude isn't loneliness, here in the dewy woods. I'm flattered to be here and I love exploring. Every tree, every stone or bush, is protecting and concealing. I want to know more.

I look up and can just see the distant sunlight reaching through branches and fog. It's my sign that I'm headed in the right direction. Inhaling, I close my eyes and relish the moment of earth and mist and freshness. I want to soak it into my bones.

I continue on and it's just a memory, that which is behind me. But I'm stepping on fallen branches and not trying to skirt around them. It's okay; I'm sure of myself here.

Horses and cloaks and carriage wheels. Tracks in the dirt.
Lanterns burning.
A child humming, stroking the yarn of her doll's head.
Whispers of fairies and stardust.
Nightgowns and stories by candlelight.
A braid over my shoulder, I carry my weight in firewood.
A violin serenades me with its delicate timbre. Chatter ensues.
Rough-hewn furtniture and dainty doilies. Handmade trinkets.
Tea and some biscuits, resting under dust, and a bottle of ink left uncorked.
The parchment stiffens, threatening to curl.
I made my home here, and I haven't gone back.