Words + Images

So the writing prompt is to describe a scent.  Okay.  Let’s see.  There are things that I wonder if they have a scent like cotton still on the vine, or beeswax candles, freshed formed and still dripping.  Cherry leaves all bereft after their cherry children have been picked.  Hay!  I know hay must have a scent, but I have never walked through a field of it before.  The sun.  Are there people in the world who can smell sunlight?  And if those people exist, then surely there must be people who smell the moon.  Colors suddenly flashed through my head.  What’s the connection between scents and colors for me?  Yellow is lemon.  Green is lime or forest.  Orange is citrus.  Red is cinnamon or cherry.  Blue is sky.  And sky smells … clean.  White is silk and soft.  Black is velvet and warm.  Brown is bark and trapped.  Gold is honey and thick, so sweet, and clear and binding.  In a romance, I could write he dripped it on my skin.  No … He poured a thin trail of honey, a web of honey!  That’s kinky.  My mind does wander with this prompt.  Butterflies must be blue and green and gold.  A chill wind and warm fire?  They smell of smoke and love.

Step 1:  Use stencil to cut butterfly images from old catalogs.

Step 2: Adhere butterflies to card stock with glue or double-sided tape.

Step 3: Use glitter glue to decorate and embellish (optional).

Step 4: Let everything dry.

Step 5:  (This is most important!)  Write note inside card and send to a friend.

The story I believe is this:  In 1920s Florence, a competition was held to portray the Madonna and Child.  This is one of those works, a tryptich unsigned, that was created for the competition.  The Madonna and Child reside in the central panel, while angels, one is rose and the other in blue, are located on either side.  My favorite parts of the images are the eyes and hands, as well as the use of color.

Once, long ago it seems, I wanted to move from New England to Savannah.  I visited and after the experience, at the prompting of a friend, I imagined what it would be like to live there.  My muse would have been very happy.  But I begin to think my muse can be happy in many places.  😉

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A Savannah Morning

5:00am. The door bell rings. Its’ the deliveryman signaling that he’s dropped off your paper. In Boston, it was a signal that if you snooze, you just might lose your newspaper. But you’re not in Boston anymore. There’s no mad rush along Habersham Street by students from the School of Design to pilfer a free newspaper. You can lie back and indulge in the morning.

Like New Orleans and Paris, Savannah purrs with indulgence. People stroll from point a to point b. They do not rush. People savor their food … for hours. No gulping allowed. Conversation is welcome, not abhorred. Fine art, fine fabrics … you rub your cheek against crisp cotton sheets that have a thread count that’s pure indulgence and you know this is the right place for you to be. For the moment.

Linked to indulgence is appreciation and you most certainly appreciate the small house on the outskirts of the River District. Formerly a gatehouse, it is small and narrow. You know if you don’t stay on top of the clutter, what the realtor described as “cozy” will quickly become “claustrophobic.” You might have walked away except for the gardens.

The shadow garden trembles on your bedroom wall. An effect of the sun shining through intricate fleur de lys and butterfly ironwork gracing your windows. When you took the city tours, you understood the pride that local African Americans expressed about the lace-like designs accenting homes throughout the River District. But now as you wake each morning, you actually *feel* the pride in the artistry of slaves, illiterate and shackled but finding freedom of expression in new forms.

The hollow haunting music of wood chimes lures you from the bed to the window and the real garden. The chimes hang on the ancient magnolias and oaks trees, and the more recently-planted dogwood. They create a symphony in the light morning breeze. A bit of perfection in a garden that is far from perfect.

The flowers you’ve planted haven’t … well, flowered yet. There are a lot of bare spots with little labeled sticks in the fresh turned soil: A few veggies. Some sunflowers. Morning glories and sweet peas planted so that the tendrils will climb the wall separating you from your neighbors. Petunia and marigold plants tucked into red clay pots. If it ever rained, the garden would be a riot of purples and pinks, reds and gold. This morning like every other you realize how spoiled you were in the wet Northeast.

Your eye settles on a robin pecking away at crumbs on your cheap wooden table. That’s where you have coffee in the morning. Speaking of which … you rush down the stairs. Starbucks French Roast soon permeates the air. You grow just a bit impatient waiting for the coffee to drip into your mug. Its summer and your window of opportunity is short. Soon the humidity and heat will rise forcing you indoors to work. But until then, you can sit at your table beneath the oak tree and let your muse listen to the wind as it speaks through the chimes and the rustle of leaves.