Sitting under that old, Southern peach tree, the fruit so ripe the sweetness was dripping down onto my head, my hair, my shoulders, my face, I started to dream. Sticky sweet and wrapped in that humid blanket called summer, the dreams just come. Awake or asleep, on days like these, they flow over you, dancing before your mind’s eye. Your life can go on if you don’t have a tree to lounge under, but the dreams remain. This life, though, has an end to it. Not my own end, which comes when it comes, but end to this way of life. This lazy Sunday life. Modern was coming with highways and noise and cityfolk and convenience. This lonely tree would fall to the pavement. These were the last days of sitting and dreaming.

I had brought my notebook to try to capture the dreams, the smells, the sights, the feeling, but how do you capture experience while you experience experience? Good Words, always reaching beyond their limits, helping me to codify explain the conversation of my skin but beautifully inadequate. I wrote a few things down. A paragraph here or there. Then I just leaned back against the tree, my tree, closed my eyes and said good-bye. Three deep breaths of summer peach and I got up to go buy new earplugs. The Modern may come, but I will block it out.

 

To keep being creative, I ask friends (and readers!) to give me three words from which I will craft a story. I leave them fairly raw (i.e. little editing) and just like to see what comes of the connections I make with the words I get. If you would like to be my next Three Word Muse, click here! H/T to BP (not the oil company).

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