Moon staring at a stormcloud

Sitting in her steller mezanine, grey and high, gentle whispers of tears came from Moon

Tendrils of light reflected in the teardrop pool forking its way through the dust near her feet

Stormcloud gathers his strength, at a odd loss to know the ways of the hearts of the Longen

They live so long, see so much. He thought as he edged his way towards Moon. He knew he had but hours to live. It made his tummy rumble and he remembered his own brief youths. Every day he died. Every day he was born. Grew old. Grew up. 

Till he dies just before Sun, his mother gives birth to him again. One of many sons and dughters of the Longen.

Would he ever reach Moon? 

Every day he tried and every night he failed. These gentle wispy tears falling. Falling. 

Stormcloud would never know why. 

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Comfort

Softness pushing gently touched

Covers envelopes us

Warmth that fills 

Air cleaner than we remember 

Filled with a sort of happy satisfaction 

Realease out relaxing tendrils

Memory of gentleness 

Kindness, a place of settlement 

We want to bundle it up and keep it

Like a old little gentle dog who sleeps on your legs like a blanket

Comfort will go, like the epervesant sinews of dream you just 

Wake and find yourself, 

Starting back

Orange Hag

A unpleasant air makes the climb all the harder
For age has made these bones as old as the land under her feet
And no one will help her
Not that anyone is hear to
A lone pine sits watching her smugly from its permeant residence
Waiting to snark at her slow approach
Not one but many more steps before the summit is reached

The hag begins to wonder
Why do this every time?
For love?
For hate?
Because otherwise all like her will no longer be?
Maybe it would feel better if it wasn’t for that smug tree

When the sun finally rises she stops to rest
Her luncheon of nuts and dry meats
Consumed in teeth that hang on
Chomping as loud as she can
No one cares what noise happens up here

Up again and bones creek
It’s not far now
Past that pine
There is a pool
Full of summers last wine

She looks at her reflection
It’s older that she thought
She takes out a spoon and drinks
Sip by sip the memories of the summer past are drunk
At the end she feels a bit sunk
By all the memory in her full belly

Then it’s time.

A flash and she’s back to being all dark and mysterious, still aged but black and not orange
The Winter Hag looks at the empty pool and says
“Pine. You always keep the memory so strong. I wish I could keep such strong memory. ”
And as she walks a into a nearby hut, you could swear the pine was now somehow even more smug than before.