A hush of cool air embraces my skin, carrying the faintest whisper of gritty soil. Each caress of wet soft fiber unveils a world veiled in liquid light. My fingers glide over surfaces slick and yielding, a cold, smooth resistance that speaks of gathered nightly tears. Petals, some plush as velvet, others brittle thin like dried secrets, bow with the weight of a million tiny spheres. A brush against a cluster releases a sudden, icy shower onto my hand, a fleeting baptism.
Stems, sometimes stubbornly firm, sometimes with a surprising bend, offer a slick passage for my exploring touch. The intricate etchings of a leaf’s veins rise beneath my fingertips, cool and precise as a carved stone. There’s a profound stillness in this tactile landscape, a damp hush where each blade and bloom is weighted with quiet wonder. It’s a world just awakened, still draped in shimmering, cool secrets, each touch a quirky revelation of form and the lingering kiss of the dew.
What is the picture you see? If you get it right, I’ll let you know!
The dailyspur writing exercise
Whisper to the void it might whisper back