It becomes something. We are still on the edge of things, still waiting for a beginning to form itself out of these mists. The day is heavy and slow, bearing the weight of so much rain and darkness. Only the wind moves, moves reluctantly through the sodden trees as though this day is a burden to it too. The stream is full, slow and heavy as though it has taken on more than it can handle and its usual course is little more than a memory as it tries to shift its load to somewhere more comfortable.
She will come out of these mists, though, and bring the morning with her, and it is some bright spring morning, full of possibility. A morning to grow out of the moments she carries in her calming gentle hands. She will shape the morning around herself with delicate fingers that can feel the tentative life beneath them, holding it up for her lips to give the kiss of life, before she takes the whole morning inside herself ready to burst the day into sudden blooming.
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