I miss the kitchen window of my first home, where I could look out over my family garden and talk to the plants. I pretended they stretched up just to hear me better, that my voice was as good as a watering. I pretended they could spin my stories to sugar, and that my thoughts would become so fable that the leaves would wear my words and call it vein.
I pretended my own veins, green as spring, were characters from a language forgotten. Letters my ancestors snuck under my skin so I would always know the sweetness of sharing.
rarasaur 
Nice!
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Thank you! 🙂
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You amaze me with your words- such a gift!
🌶 of the day! ❤
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Thank you, Di!! 😀
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beautiful.
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Thank you, Maddie 🙂
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Stunningly beautiful.
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Thank you, Robert 🙂
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I don’t read the language of your ancestors, but if it’s any kind of label for the one they’re on, I’m sure it says something wonderful.
ECHO ECHO
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Aw, that’s the sweetest. Thank you, Echo. 🙂
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