Written by: nette onclaud

In froths of a sky never ever ending, she throttles like a half—shelled woman slow to prance in the midst of obedient breeze, her movement wrapped like a hundred cider vines… How orange are her nights. Tipping the light with curves arched and flowing with rain, she mounts her tinseled limbs on autumnal crest. The trees, seeds, and candles in her eyes lightly open the fingertips of near November. Quick to beat on belly drums, her tresses of fire melt the liquid stars in one tender rush… How native and young is she. After holding the skirt that lifts into a dance in the midst of patient time, the moon hangs like a violin ready to strut for a waltz that drifts on appliqués of her arms. And if every detail of lace in her malleable clay can be sewn in the light touching her shade, this she shall bring too. In Autumn's November froth. Seasonal Bliss Contest, Regina Riddle