The first stars of twilight are winking from the sky when a voice trails over the glen. Young and vibrant and poignantly lovely, the alto grows clearer as the multicolored silk scarves of a skirt flit over the grasses, teasing them with each dancing step of the girl.
Angels, answer me,
are you near if rain should fall?
Am I to believe
you will rise to calm the storm?
For so great a treasure words will never do
Surely, if this is, promises are mine to give to you…
mine to give…
Her arms are laden with wildflowers as colorful as the hues of her skirt that stand out in stark contrast to the simple white of the peasant’s blouse, which bares the dark skin of her midriff and shoulders both. The blossoms spill from her hands with each mirthful step, the sound of musical laughter and more bits of song accompanying their colorful plunge to the sea of grass below.
At last the girl stands beneath the ledge of a window and the song trails, never truly dying, but merely subsiding into a young girl’s humming. She leans down, carefully spreads the flowers along the grass at her bare fee, and plucks an azure scarf from her waist. And then the flowers are in her arms again as she is wrapping them with as much care as she would an infant, tying the ends of the silk together, and plumping the bow with delicate fingers.
Standing high on tiptoe, she nudges the bundle onto the ledge, momentarily risking having the flowers spill back over her head, and then stands away as if to admire her handiwork.
And then she is gone, dancing over the grasses with a coquettish toss of raven hair. The alto rises again, eagerly embraced by the falling night.
———————–
That was written by a dear friend of mine nearly fifteen years ago. I came across a saved copy of it in a box of files I was cleaning out tonight and thought it was worth sharing.
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