Friday came. She thought of farm: field, woods, and open-free. She thought of the wind and song of birds in limbs she could not see; air of surreal she as true in quiet life-soundings all around. She thought of the light and winter sun in change at evening shade in restore of northward creep again; its low-light angle of the last that seemed speak and stare as eye-to-eye; the quiet and the calm of peace in moment of light-serene.
Evening’s fall, long shadows cast dissolve into the violet night; appear of the stars and the waning moon luminous above; if any shadows then at all, they of silver light and not the dark between tree spread of boughs.
Turning in, set of flame again in heart of hearth. Yellow light of kindling’s take, crackle of fine limbs and boughs gathered from the lawn.
Building.
Grow of the light, sense of the heat emanant from flame then add of the greater pieces that would long last in give of heat and light in consuming of the flame.
She thought of room, open space, light and shadow in the rafter beams, sight and body’s facing up. She thought of love, heated and strong made, in open spread before the hearth.
She heated then, smiling, musing on the thought that was ever as much a memory.
She searched into her closet and found it hanging there, burgundy gown that changed dramatic in folds and flow of shadow and light—one she knew she loved.
She warmed, musing on Friday’s come, on farm, and the dreams that they’d make true.
Begin of ache. Build of pang. She didn’t want to wait but knew—save of strain, arrived release—it would be greater all the more.