She steps into the garden. The night air is warm and succulent. It draws her in, enfolds her, consumes her bit by bit. She inhales deeply, contemplatively, savoring its sweetness. She feels its warmth caress her lungs. A liquid moon is embedded deep in the sky and pours creamy light over the little garden, drenching the flowers in a luxurious luster. She breathes out. The warmth leaves her, but its memory lingers in the corners of her body. She tells herself that she won’t ever let go of these precious reminders. That she’ll keep them close, cherish them, nurture them. Resolute, she stares into the azure distances before her, feels their cold eyes upon her, and in her heart, she hears the bitter herald of the coming winter.

-r. miller


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