A bruise on the tongue. A sting. A taste of smoke. The hint of a kiss, a slow song curling: a blackcurrant berry, plucked from beneath a musky leaf. Where there is smoke, there was once fire, which dwells in the heart, remembering.
Blackcurrant branch, I know you long to return to the muddy spring from which you were taken. You crave water more than earth. I've not given you enough water, and so you reward me with an especially pungent tang. An invisible moon caresses your berries during the long white nights. You, blackcurrant, will often be graced by her silver face, peering down at your frost-encrusted branches during the equally long, pale days of winter. A small handful of these dark berries is more than enough medicine for today.
Raspberries ripen slowly, methodically, tangles of brambles, and small bursts of sweetness populated by tiny spiders. As the summer progresses, no leaf now remains untouched by the filigree of an insect's handiwork. The fireweed blossoms to its tips, thousands of lilac candles remain lit. Soon enough, they will release their fairy-fluff and signal the start of Autumn.
It is August now, and thought washes down the pebbled streets with the rain-drops, and stirs into the breeze. Dreams fill with the scent of lavanda, the blue-blackness of blackcurrant, light, and the not-quite-decipherable faces of beloved ones.
The next day brings its own enchantment. I step out into a shower of gold fleur-de-lis. A warm wind coaxes the birch seeds into the air and brings them down onto my head in a giddy stream of delight.
|Birch-seeds at the mossy foot of a birch-tree.|
|gold fleur de lis on a dianthus|
|Yes, I am a madwoman, but an affectionate one. I must share the madness. :)|
I sink down in my little clover patch, and nearly weep for joy. Then, I hug two birch trees, and return indoors.
Amo, amas, amat, amamas, amatis, amant: One of the first lessons in any language, and may it indeed be my last. The conjugation or declension of one word. Amo. Amor.