It begins for most people at the filigree gates, portal to a different paradise. Step through peeling iron sentinels to find a garden of primal beauty. Wilderness, untouched by trowel, stippled with sunlight, has spread flora for acres. Something pricks Izzy’s foot. Swearing softly in this hallowed place, she bends to take communion with the mossy underfoot. Examining the unfamiliar thorn, she reflects on her purpose for venturing further into the cathedral of venerable trees. The sun is inviting, comforting, seducing her with promises of lazy stupor. She tilts her face upwards, her closed eyelids showing a stippled map of fine red tracings, a treasure map to her inner secrets.
The copyright of this post belongs to Lynn Hillston