Last night was an ode to summer with a few fellow romantics. Summer,
still held in our hands, but soon, fading fast. Dozens of candles
throughout the yard, bottles of wine drunk from tarnished chalices...a
midnight feast in the garden. The voices of Florence, Loreena, and Lana
sung over the course of evening; sometimes we ceased speaking and
simply listened to the words. The chorus of crickets filled any
silences. The moon rose, and drew us to patches of its light, where we
gazed in wonder. We danced around a torch in the middle of the lawn,
through the trees, down the sloping hill. Spinning, jumping,
twirling..."Let the wild rumpus start" indeed. Cigars were smoked at
1am, and we conversed and read Edna until 3am. Our masks led to a
strange feeling of safety, of nothing-to-lose openness. The night
passed too quickly, and yet, will not be soon forgotten. Summer, stay,
just a little while yet.
I woke up this morning with a Queen Anne's Lace still in my hair.
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| http://rabbitheartedgirl87.blogspot.com/ |
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| Come into my garden, said the spider to the fly |
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| "And here's to drinks in the dark..." (-Florence) |
These are stunning and well-captured. April strikes a gorgeous silhouette.
ReplyDeletei don't know how to communicate this, but these photos, you souls joining together to celebrate, to twirl, to be still, to invite awe...meets a place in my soul that often comes up empty. i guess it is comes back to sacred kindredness. the photos remind me of a secretive tour i once received backstage of a theatre, where pulleys and ropes and curlique stairways and expired velvet reigned. i love your wildness, kelly.
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