to be made of sunshine is beautiful
to be the light and the warmth and to be loved
Her eyes riveted back to his form as he dragged his finger over a thorn, quirking her head in a decree of uncertainty, not fully understanding why he would try that – the injury there was a result. A modicum of concern unfurled, and were she not in a tree she might have asked, might have wondered further; but then he continued on, as if nothing had occurred, no worse for wear.
She didn’t know anything about evolution; but she could fathom the notions of adapting, of changing, of altering because of danger and treachery. Perhaps she would’ve been the same emboldened, audacious child, had the world not fallen apart – less treacherous, less disastrous, capable of holding onto the entanglements of innocence, letting them last for as long as possible. “I suppose,” she sing-songed, head bobbing in agreement, her gaze trailing over the ethers of the gnarled, derisive roots and vines, things morphed because the environment, the world, dictated it. Her glance did go briefly to the squirrel too, light laughter ringing through the eaves, the bough she sat within, warm giggles meant to encourage rather than admonish.
A wild thing or a tame one; her smile was bright and ebullient, a twist and turn of things she could’ve been. Tame – maybe once, given the opportunity, had she have stayed in her mother’s grasp long enough to treasure herbs or sing in shrouds of wildflowers. Likely more adept to the wilderness now though, at times savage and unhinged, desperate to convey protection in brutality, violence and vehemence, trying, trying, trying. “Wild, probably.” She paused, a shrug in her movements and motions, undulating its way through the branch. “What about you?”
She didn’t know anything about evolution; but she could fathom the notions of adapting, of changing, of altering because of danger and treachery. Perhaps she would’ve been the same emboldened, audacious child, had the world not fallen apart – less treacherous, less disastrous, capable of holding onto the entanglements of innocence, letting them last for as long as possible. “I suppose,” she sing-songed, head bobbing in agreement, her gaze trailing over the ethers of the gnarled, derisive roots and vines, things morphed because the environment, the world, dictated it. Her glance did go briefly to the squirrel too, light laughter ringing through the eaves, the bough she sat within, warm giggles meant to encourage rather than admonish.
A wild thing or a tame one; her smile was bright and ebullient, a twist and turn of things she could’ve been. Tame – maybe once, given the opportunity, had she have stayed in her mother’s grasp long enough to treasure herbs or sing in shrouds of wildflowers. Likely more adept to the wilderness now though, at times savage and unhinged, desperate to convey protection in brutality, violence and vehemence, trying, trying, trying. “Wild, probably.” She paused, a shrug in her movements and motions, undulating its way through the branch. “What about you?”
to be made of sunshine is painful
to be too hot to touch, too far away to reach
MELITA
