In every dream it appeared she was awake but daydreaming of him.
She wondered if it might be appropriate to have a moment of silence with expressions of solemnity sitting in a manner altogether serious but the visual caused her to wake in laughter. They weren’t the same two people that had met previously but even if they were blindfolded and placed on separate continents they would recognize the other by the sound of their heartbeats.
When awake she marveled at how rich the soil must have been for the seeds that were planted to grow to the point that her passion for him had taken a life of its own. He’d taken root in her heart where she’d been promoted to gardener and asked to water without judgement of the roots origins.
She presses forward. With ink. On paper. In life. Her entire world has become a garden and she feels him every time she kneels to tend soil and every time she feeds others or eats from the harvest of love.
She doesn’t have the experience of true farmer yet knows her harvest has yielded transformations in body, mind and soul that even in winter could return life to the darkest crop of any farmer through fertilized minds of enlightenment.
Some have called her naive, a dreamer and maybe even a dunce but if she be child, fairy-tale believer or pointy-cap wearer, she’s decided the joy found in her somewhat lonely apprenticeship will be the choice seeds she continues sowing so those less palatable may be fed to the birds in order to be transmuted to life, no parts of experience going to waste.
She knows life must at times take on the tones of seriousness and depth yet the only vision of him she continues to conjure is through the eye of a tornado of passion.