Bryan Tree

April 15, 2009

She never was one for fairy dust, as its lustrous glimmer looked all too synthetic from the porch. The persistent, living glissando of insect chrysalis caught the sunlight much more graciously than any other form of powder or solid. It was chrysalis, not dew, that glimmered in the morning sun as her black boots wended their way into the grass.

She felt her heart tug when she saw Bryan among the eye-popping green strips that threatened to encircle the sandy-brown waves of his hair. She didn’t mind that she couldn’t extricate him from the earth for the earth was him and he was it, and when her right thumb and forefinger grasped the root that comprised one of his left toes he just laughed that high laugh and ran his branch fingers through her hair in turn. The earthy smell of soil and moisture, and the sunlight stirring the whole pot like a wooden spoon in the hands of a daydreaming old woman, thrilled her and when Bryan’s hand encircled hers the leaves that were his fingernails tickled the inside of her wrist.

“Just wait ‘til the summer rain,” she thought mischievously. “You’ll be mine then, Bryan Tree.”


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