a description for the blind |
green is summertime, a push mower, and cut grass, and rain falling on freshly tilled garden. it’s the scent of pine trees and the brush of river reeds on the face. it's growing things— the soft crush of moss, and the prickle of cactus. it’s the cool of mint ice cream, and the wet of honeydew melon, and the smooth of avocado. it’s the air in a veterinarian’s office, full of urine and cleanser with an undercurrent of wet fur. it’s the beginning of rot, catching at the back of the nose. it’s death. it’s what remains after the heat of a fever, when everything extra has melted away, leaving only a pale core of what is intrinsic to the soul. it’s magic, it’s nighttime, when the wind is up, when the moon is new, and the queen of the fairies rides through town. it's wanting to be someone else. it's the twisting of the gut when no one is home, and a knock echoes at the door. that is green. line count: 48 Prompt for: Jan 15, 2016 ▼ |