brunette-from-oz

Me! Now and Then! I am walking on the rim of a cyclone. Ocean waves are higher than my feet.  How? If the earth tilts now we will own a new coastline.  Winds are pushing my clothes into every crevice of my body as the material attempts to flirt with the skin of my sacred places. The willy-wagtail, on the sand at my feet, tries to fly. A valiant thing, tossed and twitched on the edge of the wind. The child outgrows the drawer and begins to absorb the sounds of the planet.  The groan of old timber floors:  rhythms of familiar footsteps along the hall;  sounds escaping from mouths, given meaning by inflexion and by the light and expression in eyes.  Before words were filed, this child knew that beauty shapes itself according to the soil on which its seed has fallen. Beauty would always be the idea that would make her life tolerable. They often found her tucked in tiny corners, surrounded by sweet smelling heads of roses, tugged tufts of clover, fragrant violets uprooted by small fists; shiny and perfectly round pebbles in her grasp. She stroked her cheek, her chin, with a perfectly soft and purely white chest feather of a backyard chicken. She conversed in rhyme with her mini friends in a language in her household, from the time her tongue discovered four teeth.