The air today is dusty, the wild grass fragile and the thoughts lazy.
Yet the hot sun hasn’t tired of bleaching the wooden path.
You want to flow across it, slowly, like the pages of a book counting themselves in a linen bag.
A sandy scarf and amber in your palm, eternal reminders that this day is only for you.
Nowhere to rush. Just be in the moment, fleeting, only to return, released by that book on a cool evening.
“…perfume that is light like the summer breeze and shifting like the sand”