Years ago, I found a sepia print of her in the attic. Lovely and timeless, she stood in her youth. Her lithe frame, gossamer hair and winter blue eyes looked upon someone who knew how to make her smile. A smile, that could make the thorniest man unshackle the taut irons around his heart.
I wander through the lush and timeless countryside, where mimosa tree blossoms release a sugared fragrance cooked by a fiery sun. Aperegrine falcon soars from a space on high; overseer of the rolling hillside.
Carried upon the breeze are gentle melodic voices, from Mennonite women sharing stories and laughter, as they hang their laundered clothing in the wind to press and dry into shape. Cotton and linen that will be sun faded and warmly fragrant of nature’s scents, by dusk.
In the old house, thunder slowly rumbles the wood clapboards as they settle and shift the dust through rays of light, pouring in from the open windows of the parlor.
The women folk make iced lemon and watermelon waters which are stirred slowly with long spoons,deep intoperspiring glass jars. The humming of the evening porch gossip, as loved ones gather sharing stories of the day, will linger into the late-night until the vibration of silence, is the only sound to be heard.
Blackbirds among the cornfields abruptly take flight, trailing a dusty path towards the lavender heaven above. Those that have secrets will find haven in Caedmon’s tobacco barn, deep into the tree line, where dusk moves like a velvet shadow over the living things.
In the evening, I bathe in mint and chamomile blossoms collected in the afternoon heat. The gurgled sound of water from the spigot echoes off of the steamed walls as I place my cotton gown on the linen cabinet, lined with discolored Christmas cards from days gone by.
Combing through my freshly bathed hair, I look out my window into the shadowy forest. I see Caedmon’s historic, two-story Federal house. The white painted bricks, blistered and faded through the seasons, give the appearance of a sugar dusted gingerbread house standing tall among the pines.
A greasy oil lamp burns on a rickety table, on the upper back porch. I see his sturdy frame, silhouetted against the moonlight. His pipe smoke is a phantom; rising, glowing and taking form upon the air. His stare penetrates through the nightfall like he is expecting something to come his way.
I think he secretly watches me in the mornings as I gather herbs and berries from his fields.
I watch him, too…
I reminisce the day’s moments, hiding the memories like sacred treasures, as my body settles into darkness. I listen for the distant whistle of the night train. Always sounding before the town’s clock strikes the loneliest hour.
The whistle is aghostly lullaby carried upon the wings of Nighthawks, as Ash Rose Hollow slumbers silently through our dreams…
Tommie Flannery Baskis ~ Duskflyer Vision Art & Productions
Duskflyer Vision Art & Productions 