I planted some honeysuckle last spring to train along an expansive wood fence bordering our small urban backyard. My wish is to cover it with an infusion of yellow, dewy blossoms that will fill my nose with the uniquely sweet smell of our previous woodland home, encircled with yard-lengths of the wild stuff.
The last few days have kept this promise to myself and I’ve got the notion to take advantage of them. I remember picking them to give to the children, showing them how to suck the honey-dew from their innards, fascinating them as if their mother were a secret woodland fairy.
Now, I only desire to sit among them. Quiet, and at peace. Until Kaukab calls.