Whenever whimsical storm winds brush the trees, the asphalt wakes up with an assortment of organic trinkets and jewels of various kinds. Today, I picked up a beautiful moss-covered chip of wood still humid from the midnight showers, its velvety shades of silver and green shimmering in all their glory under the morning sun.
(WAND.10) Chance meetings the day the dead are invited to walk the earth. Apparitions, ghosts I swear I’ve seen before. Or is this but a projection, my soul dressed up in pale green velvet stained with bleach —dewdrop tokens from the everyday? I doubt and say: No, a mirage hardly ever presents itself ornamented with such minuscule details.