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
