She was beautiful in afternoon, in sky that overcast in cloud and moving in of front; that on the wind carried spring-scent and verdure’s awake to life anew.
Even the bare ground blossomed. Before her, on patch of earth that saw no sun in summer’s shade, she smiled on miniature sight of violet-trumpets over blanket of henbit’s rhizome carpet-spread.
Even the bare ground blossomed, like once deadened places of her heart: restored and renewed in romance-hope that comes in spring.
Blow of the wind further shaded sky, but that was fine. Internal, she was sun. She felt it through her skin and held in her hands waved rays of her hair that gleamed, even in shade, from a light-source that was her.
She smiled, giggled, laughing in absurd of romance-thought—and believed it still; sensing her commune with Cosmos; It’s words and signed returns; love-letters through sky and dream.
“One can’t help but be romantic when the world is painted so,” she spoke to herself and energy around. She knew the words would find their mark—be heard and felt and known, returned, to energy for which she meant.
In wind stir, her body cooled in blow through loose-fall clothes. Beneath, in fold and loose’s hide, her nipples hardened of a drawing in. She wished them otherwise—same but in heat and of expand.
In vision of dream, attune to a sense, so her ends became; her body no longer cool—even in the stiffen of wind.
Before her on small patio table, she looked on empty page. Black pen was in her hand.
“What should I write?” she mused.
Sensed answer in the silence, “Anything you want. It’s yours to make and write and tell—however that you want it. Nobody cares, nobody will see, except the few who care to see and know YOU.”
She felt a stronger warmth, different best of heart, attuning to art and voice of her private soul. She shivered of the sacred as attuned and listening she made and wrote her art.
Then, in return to Cosmos’ heart, she gave it back by way and means she believed Love-Energy would see.