She crushed the leaves in the palm of her hand and smelled their dark aroma. The wind swirled around her and picked up the broken pieces which were carried off into the distance. She followed the fragments as long as she could, but soon they were lost amongst the elaborate details of nature.
Her eyes traced the grassy fields that stretched beyond view and gazed in wonder as the warmth of the magic hour danced resplendently along the bellies of the clouds. Slowly, but immeasurably, the milieu was draped in shadows, but the reflection of the sun was effulgent in her eyes.
As she walked the dips of the verdure, rose the scent of moist earth and intoxicating green, titillating her memories. She became conscious of her breathing, which deepened by dint of indulgent reminiscence that cloyed her senses. She was headed to the distant edge of the field where the hillside dropped away to a vast drink. With each step, the moist blades slashed her now viridescent hem, leaving a testimony of her sojourn. Later, when she would question her situation, the mordant chroma would remind her of how she got there. She would remember the choices, both random and naïvely chosen, and know how she had arrived.
When she neared her destination, the increasingly salted winds washed over her cheeks. She inhaled a hastened drag and the briny air piquantly pricked her tongue. Her conscious hand flitted to her mouth and slowly slid down her neck, over her whirring chest, and down deep into her pocket. Cold. Her fingers clutched memories, now cold and dormant.
She could no longer be surreptitious, even if she wanted to be, for the sagacious sea knew all her secrets. She withheld nothing. The whir peaked. With a roar, all her fears and losses and desires jettisoned over the cliff, and the sea crashed back in response. The waves greedily lapping up the fervent effusion, showed no empathy. This was her very being now, the matter of her existence.
So allowed to fertilize, a bud had grown.
The drum began a slow, steady beat. The locket descended; blue.
The pulsing luster in her chest charted a map to the constellations.
In the dark, is how she was made.
