Foggy Bottom
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The cold fog rises from the meadow like smoke from Poppy's pipe...
... ever upward with the sweet savour of meadow grass.
My bare feet, like mortar and pestle, smash out the green scent as I walk through the wet dew, chilled and sprinkled with drops of water.
Goosebumps chase each other up my legs to tender, pebbled breasts. I cross my arms for warmth and blow out a quivering cloud of warm breath.
Revealed now, the rugged brown trunks of the trees surrounding me in the distance.
They wave the fog away, as I've seen Mamaw do with Poppy's pipe smoke...
... with twisting limbs that sway in the breeze.
Copyright © Crystol Woods | Year Posted 2024
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