I stepped outside,
Felt the slap of winter’s
Icy breath
And stood beneath
The rain-soaked pines

Drops dripped

I looked up, fists clenched
And felt a wet ceiling above
A great ice wall betwixt me
And the sky
Unleashing and spitting upon me

Drops dripped

The Lord had taken my joy
I said
Had swept my feet from under
Like a scythe at harvest
My precious things in their
Full bloom,
Their life and blood on the earth

Drops dripped

I stopped at the very edge of the forest and slowly extended a hand towards the nearest tree. Its skin was strange—chunky, jagged, and craggy. I had never been close enough to one to see it in detail, so I was unprepared for such a texture. Fruit trees were confined within carefully secured orchards, and the few varieties of small, ornamental flowering trees—little more than bushes, really—that were allowed inside the Clearings all had skin that was more or less smooth with only an occasional bump in it.

By the end of my first day of teaching the following week, the ball seemed years ago, a distant memory buried under an avalanche of paperwork, schedules, lesson plans, grading, and assignments. Had it not been for Devorah Erren’s insufferable boasting to the other girls about the ball (she being the only one of the class whose parents had allowed her to attend) I might not have thought of it at all.
By the middle of the week, however, my thoughts had turned to the upcoming festival that I was to attend with Mira and her family.

My plans of showing Mira around Havenwing were dashed by torrential rains that lasted all day. By the time it finally relented, the sun was going down and it was time to prepare for the ball.
Mira and I declined the lady’s maid’s offer to arrange our hair for us, in favor of experimenting on each other. After hearing of our intentions Aunt Monria presented us with her entire chest of hair ornaments to choose from, offered a few casual suggestions for styles that would suit our hair colors, facial shapes, and dresses, and then left us alone.

Hidden in the shadows
Of a forest
Beneath the undergrowth
Is a wild path
Whispers of the trees
Guide the way
Songs of the Birds
Just ahead, but never in sight
Shaped by your thoughts
Never still, but moving
Follow the path of your dreams

The winds were cold
From over mountains old
Where whistling stones were thrown
To rack the trees in forests dark

Moths were biting in the light
Of torches’ fire in the stark
When night was high upon the gale
White breath blowing in the hills

Shadows lay on backs of trees
Wither then many spread
and crossed the crooked stones
Which marked the winding road

My concerns about my position being 'too idyllic' dissipated to more appropriate proportions once I had been introduced to the students who would be under my tutelage. There were nine of them, all eleven-year-old girls, and most of them proved to be perfect darlings.

I was far too tired to stay awake, but the tipping and jolting of the carriage combined with my fear prevented me getting any sleep. So, as the brougham made its way through the darkness, I curled up against the bulky pack of my belongings and closed my eyes, pretending to rest.

I tried to think about Havenwing. It was safe there. There I would be beyond the reach of the wild country and the creatures that inhabited it.

They call it 'otherworldly'--

the nectar-colored sky

behind the blackened front

of the approaching summer storm...

the sunlight and the rain that come at once,

dripping gold...

the sighing of the wind among

the youngest of the trees...

the stirring of the lake

beneath the water lilies...

'Otherworldly'.

I laugh at them--

at the narrow minds

that speak of other worlds but cannot grasp

the wonders of their own,

who cannot fathom sun and rain at once...

or a nectar-colored sky.