When dawn became morning, with the graceful arms of a ballerina, she tossed bread crumbs to finches and towhees gathered at the feeder. Sadly the flowers lay drenched in nights raindrops, puddled petals in a potpourri garden.
Wiping dried wax from the bedside table she replaced melting candles that held too many memories. Her silk scarves were cached in a pale blue armoire but for the rose hued tossed across the night lamp.
The hours pass slowly in a room blushed with moon-glow, the faint scent of sandalwood and a hint of dried lavender.
Mark Spain Art