born on the vernal equinox

She was born a tranquil. Maid of moss and mist. Born on vernal equinox. Under a star-pricked sky.

First fingers on dawn scratching away the cold light stars. Waken from a cocoon of sleep. Bathe in forever flowing spring. Braid wet hair with dried lavender.

Choose gown and cloak to match season. White wool woven with specks of black and grey. Airy diaphanous layers of greens, blues, and violets. Mottled surplice of iris and daffodil. Hot orange and harsh red short toga. Bodice and kirtle thick soft cotton flowing in golds and russets. Cloak woven with golden threads.

Spend days in shaded, secluded vales. Season shape shifted to season. Nature proving all she needs.

Foraging. Ritual of thankfulness. Shepherding her verdant world.

Fiddleheads and goose-tongue greens. Whortle berries stain fingers purple. Catching apples and pulling wild carrots. Winterberries red against snow.

Free of human companionship. Air full of bird song octaves. Soft nuzzle of fawns. Antics of squirrels. Puffed out cheeks of chipmunks. Wolf protector.

Delight. Discovery. Wandering. Spinning in sun-dashed glade. Creating.

Crown of flowers. Sluicing warm misty rain.

Braids of grasses. Tassels of seeds.

Smell of earth. Of heat.

Wreath of pine. Taste of snowflakes on tongue.

Horizon glows with sundown rays. Sky blue-black. Starscapes.

Green corn moon. Harvest moon. Blue moon.

She stretches arms. Legs. Curls up beneath weeping willow. Safe. Hidden. Blanket of pixie dust.

Dreams of dancing. Visions of brightness. Glimpses of fresh tomorrows.

I am vigilant. Keep the secret. Quiet the whispers. Still the tremors.

She must not know. Parallel universes. Timeless portals. Shapeless spaces. Bubble of dream. Bittersweet.

For if she did, a tsunami of salt-water (tears) would wash away moss and violets. Flames (anger) would blast forest black and barren. Poison (envy) dries up forever spring. Hail (self-hatred) batter the bramble bushes. Fog (depression) settles over the devastation.

She must always be born a tranquil. On the vernal equinox. Under a star-pricked sky.

Tale spun for Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie Tale Weaver 29: Tranquility

© phylor 2015


6 thoughts on “born on the vernal equinox

  1. Valida Muse September 3, 2015 / 7:03 pm

    WOW, this is beautiful writing, Phylor–breath-taking, even.


    • phylor September 3, 2015 / 8:08 pm

      Thank you.
      Michael helped. I asked for suggestions, and these helped provide tranquility to my chaotic mind.


      • Valida Muse September 3, 2015 / 9:12 pm

        I looked at the prompt, the photo–and since “tranquility” for me would be the ocean/sea, rather than forest, I considered writing to that effect–sort of an “anti response” to the prompt. But then I lost all energy and enthusiasm….


        • phylor September 3, 2015 / 10:44 pm

          Hey, you can participate in the prompt whenever. We put no time restrictions on the tales to be woven.
          When you get the energy and enthusiasm back, write about the ocean. I think of the sea as metaphor for depression, chronic pain, bipolar. Long story. Submit to another MMLM prompt, lol


  2. summerstommy2 September 3, 2015 / 8:47 am

    Such a collection of poetic devise, imagery rich in colour. You have spun so well my friend.


    • phylor September 3, 2015 / 9:01 am

      Thank you, kind sir.
      It took me a while to envision tranquility in my chaotic mind.
      Excellent prompt to weave a tale to.


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