She is a garden

florid, a dream of a character, counterpoint to more parsimonious words

She is a garden painted in shifting sunlight, partially shadowed by a mosaic dancing dappling of shadows of leaves of trees. Here an incarnadine sunlit rose and its balance of thorns, there a demure pure shaded lily. Here properly tidy sable petunias. And there joyously overgrown moon vine boldly claiming freedom. Everywhere just as she should be.

Verdant moonlit waters fill her eyes and spill on to my sleeve.

She still misses the ways she might have gone. Becoming weary, her flaws and perfections rest in my arms, and she hiccups one time. And then snores timorously.

I'm sitting awkwardly and my back begins to ache from her weight against me. I shift and she stirs to turn in to me. I lay back. An uppity root presses me uncomfortably. I just forget the root - never wishing to disturb the sleeping beauty in my arms.

It rains softly, then more prodigiously, a flash lights the shelter of the kind leaves above us, the sky ferociously cracks and the ground trembles.

She leaps up and laughs, stepping on me. The sound incredibly more beautiful than the sussurance of the wind and tapping of rain in and on the canopy.

She twirls under the storm. I sit, momentarily forgotten by both of us. I watch her, alternately illuminated in flashes or almost hidden in the dark spaces between. My heart feels larger than than the entire shy field of peaceful stars behind the clouds. I know the name of everything.

Author's Note

It's supposed to paint a picture, and be dreamlike. It's supposed to be counterpoint to some other more parsimonious writing