The Joy of Evening

Friday night, as my little family left Target and we loaded up the car with our after-dinner shopping, I admittedly dragged my feet a bit as I returned to the cart to its corral. It had been a long while since I had experienced evening, and I realized that I had forgotten how beautiful it is…and how much I love it. That magical time between day and night. Friday was now just a thin golden line along the horizon. The air and dome of the sky above was a heavy blue that was quickly darkening with waning daylight. Lamps in the parking lot were coming on, the shadows around them rising and deepening, and the air cooling from the day’s heat. The evening felt rather the refreshed sigh you give when entering an air conditioned room from the summery outside.

I’ve missed evenings.



Snowy Globe

Have you ever noticed how snowfall makes car headlamps (and even street lamps) look different? It’s almost like a globe that softens the light. It becomes a warm, soft almost candle-like glow rather than a bright orange spear of light. It’s comforting on those snowy, late-evening drives, almost like we are indeed partners and neighbors in this pace of life.


A Smile Like Wine

Her lips were dark like malbec, the smile that tilted them almost coy in its own innocence. They were lips unused to color, unsure of just how to function in it. How widely she may smile, how freely she may laugh. Her lips trembled and stumbled through it until they decided, seemingly of their own volition, that they could not maintain such primness and elected merely for truth of being.

They parted when she laughed, to let her voice ring out. They beamed when she smiled, her teeth flashing brightly against the dark of her smile and catching her bottom lip shyly at times. They flew eagerly, drawing accidentally elegant shapes, when she talked about something of which she was passionate. They fluttered like dark birds in that moment, like the starlings that wheeled in lovely shapes overhead.

Coy innocence. Accidental elegance. Unintentional grace. A wine-dark smile beaming a sun-bright spirit.





Winter Whispers outside, her feet meet diamonds on the sidewalk, the snowglobe world silently having been turned upside down as she had worked. The turn seems to have met its zenith as the flakes fall fast and thick and heavy. The stark white feathers flutter against her eyelashes and brush her cheeks cunningly, leaving a flushing pink behind as warmth rushes up to her skin after their cold kisses. Pulling her scarf tight, she glances up at the slate-grey sky, which just seems to smile at her in the form of a cold breeze lifting the curls of her hair for a brief moment, and a few snowy zephyrs leap up from the thickening drifts to play and nip at her ankles as she starts to make her way home. But she deviates today, her feet carrying her from path to park; such an even as the first snow deserves the respect of observation. Soon, her steps go from diamond-dusted to a pleasant crunch not unlike that first bite into perfect gingerbread. The wind flirts saucily with the hem of her coat and that of her skirtsnowy legs underneath it, caressing her legs with frosty fingers as though whispering her own beatuy back to her.

The world seems to grow quieter amidst the silence of the snowfall, the flakes interlocking their unique lattices together to form heavy white carpet that softens the cacaphony of the world. The hum and buzz and bustle seem to fall away, dampened by wintry ethereality, as if they cannot bear to disrupt such a transformation. A transformation that borders on the divine, with her as its single witness.

She has always loved winter, the long sleep of nature. Everything must take its rest, even the world itself in its turn. She loves the promise that lies in bare branches and blanched grass, to imagine what nature has in store for its next act in her lifetime. Even more so than that, winter teaches her to revel in the what is and the now. In this moment, not the looking forward or the glancing behind.

And so she walks in snowy footsteps, the world gone silent around and above her. Winter recognizes Her worshipper, a lady of Her court, and sends icy diamonds to adorn her hair and cloak her shoulders for this, the overture to Winter’s first whisper.


Wonderfully Made

She wears her body like she is proud of it.

Like it is something fearfully and wonderfully made, and it is.

She holds her chest high, unembarrassed by its perkiness.

She lets her hips sway, honoring their curves.

She works to bless and please the body she has been gifted with.

She eats sumptuous foods and waters her body liberally.

She stretches and challenges her body to make it stronger.

She pampers her body and rests it.

Rather than denying her body’s beauty, she allows the compliments in with gracious acknowledgement.

She wears her body like she is proud of it.

Like she is fearfully and wonderfully made.

Because she is.

I am.

You are.



The rain tapped on the pane of the window with beseeching fingertips as she watched the droplet bounce, drum, and roll from the leaves of the red oak in her front yard. If you had asked her how long she had been sitting there, she wouldn’t have been able to tell you. If you had asked her how long it had been raining, she had wouldn’t have been able to tell you that either. All she would have told you was that she was waiting.


She was always waiting. She would always wait. Wait in beauty. Wait in silence.

She did make quite a lovely loading screen.


The Woman with the Golden Veil

To catch a glimpse of her was to stop and catch your breath in wonder. There was little about her self that was remarkable: lips like raspberries, skin like milk, a simple dress, dark curls of hair. She was plain, but the veil, the veil made her ethereal. It was like sunlight captured, woven, and spun, a resplendent crown upon her dark head, pouring over her shoulders like holy oil. She said not a word, made no move to accept obeisance or the worship surely due someone of so glorious a diadem. She barely raised her eyes from the ground as she walked. Creamy-white feet pad through the dust, from the temple, through the market, to city square and babbling fountain. This water was never drawn, drunk, or even touched. That was what the well in the market was for. This fountain was sacred, like an oasis in the desert. Sacred to Melusina, the water goddess. And this woman was come to read her will. Read it in the current, the ripples, the waves, and the froth. She was the lady of the waters, Melusina’s oracle.

The golden veil cast sunlight shimmers on the water as the oracle took her snowy hands and did the unthinkable: she sank them into the fountain.

NanoBloPoMo 2014 Day 7: The Moonlight’s Serenade

Did you know that moonlight has a sound? It is unlike anything known to the human ear and each person hears it differently, not to mention each region on earth having its own melody. Where I am, moonlight sounds like clean blue glass, shivering and silvery like winter sparkle, all major chords and flutey melody. Full moonlight builds like a spreading crescendo, like fingers of sea foam on sand dollar strings. Fragile and magnificent, shimmeringly beautiful.

That is how I hear moonlight, its melody sneaking into my home through window panes and sifting into my dreams. What does your melody sound like?