Her window was lined with glass bottles, filled to the brim with the most whimsical treasures

Potions, tinctures, dead things, growing things, cultivated by the heat of the day and settled with the cool of night

Garden herbs garnish each of her dishes. Beneath the kitchen door seeps the sweet scent of incense; a mask of the steaming porridge grains

Upon her thatched cottage roof, we are lulled into lethargy by the hum of a thousand fireflies

I squint, so that between my lashes, the treeline seems ablaze

 

What a wonderfully strange life she leads…