Lena
hope is the thing with feathers
that perches in the soul
that perches in the soul
Lena had been burning the midnight oil too – in between cups of cocoa and tea, set up along her own path amidst the greenery and enclosures. Listening to Mittens hum or stringing along her meandering melodies, cloth over her shoulder, embroidery needles in her basket, occasional night checks along the enclosures feeding her restless wanderings.
Which was how she found Mateo, in similar circumstances as her, apparently, though she wouldn’t know it until far later. “Mateo,” she greeted, eyes flickering with keen interest towards his wheelbarrow of petals and flowers, half-inquiring over their distinctions and beauty. But that didn’t slip from her, not yet anyway, instead winding her fingers over the makeshift leash accompanying Mittens (who, of course, had wanted to immediately lunge for the young Accepted). “How are you? May I join you?”
Which was how she found Mateo, in similar circumstances as her, apparently, though she wouldn’t know it until far later. “Mateo,” she greeted, eyes flickering with keen interest towards his wheelbarrow of petals and flowers, half-inquiring over their distinctions and beauty. But that didn’t slip from her, not yet anyway, instead winding her fingers over the makeshift leash accompanying Mittens (who, of course, had wanted to immediately lunge for the young Accepted). “How are you? May I join you?”
and sings the tune without the words
and never stops at all
and never stops at all
