He recognized the romance signs, accents of spirit in sensual’s color and adorn: layered dreaminess of cloth in fold upon itself, smooth skin of fruit in matching hue in rest upon; her wear of shirt, long sleeved and fitting, in sensual’s hue of same—striking in contrast to fair of skin at shirt’s collar and sleeve’s cuffs; sharp in its different to her black of pants, close and fitting, over spread of her hips and shape.
Verdure accents of vine and cuttings, there were boughs of cherry laurel in eternal green and columned stacks of fine leafed flowers in break of winter bloom; floral arrangements of life and blossomed color amidst the winter’s bare.
Coalesced, she made it into beauty that was hers—romance of mind, idea, and spirit expressed in art of vision.
Every detail, he absorbed wondering on each nuance—its meaning and its reason—but in company, he held his tongue.
Only at end, and a quiet and alone, did he speak to her achievement.
“You found a way to use the color still. You gave it life. It was beautiful—to sight and spirit.”
She smiled. Face blushed, rouging as the hue in recognition and attest to her intent.
“Where there’s will, there’s always a way,” she answered proud and also coy, winking after speak. “It’s the only way to get what you want after first answer received is ‘no,’ to stay creative and find another way.”
In open of room, she tended to the table still in beauty of arrangement. Her fingers ran, slow and light, in trace of the layered cloth lain and folded in upon itself.
She drew a laurel bough from table piece. Holding, she twirled the bough between finger and thumb. White columned blossoms spun in maneuver of her working.
It reminded her of heirloom piece in oaken home, trinity sign of sky-blue lettered write, where they first learned and made their love; his kiss of her lips into trail over body, she poised high on heirloomed rest before stand and guide, her body handle-spun like bough in fall and settle to the floor; heat of the hearth, light of the fire, impassion of their make.
She felt a greater heat of blush in strong rising of the memory.
She wanted more than romance hue. She wanted to live it in the room: stripped of the hue, white as the petaled bloom, spun in handle, alive in winter’s bare.
Where there’s will, there’s always a way.
Coalesced—romance of mind, idea, and spirit—she arranged the romance signs in way she knew that he would see; in an art and beauty that were hers, expressing of the vision.