eventide.

come late june, the evenings stretch long and languid, into gossamer strands of gold, and dusk is but a rumor.

with all this light to fill, we gather heart shaped clover



wend our way through a stack of tales



[pages rendered in every shade of bright]



and inhale the quiet of the kingdom plantae, delicate and bizarre.



we stay up long past bedtime, and still find enough leftover light for
one last fruit salad snack



for touching small toes to a still-bright sky



for one last simple story



and one (or sixty-two) final plunges down the slide.



then we lumber inside on sleepy feet to shower and slumber and gather dreams of doing it all again tomorrow.