Tuesday, April 17, 2007


bound about her head with a crimson ribbon. She
wore a dress of some dark material, very plainly made, but
swathed about her waist, outlining its fine curves, was a vived
girdle of red silk. Her hands, clasped over her knee, were brown
and somewhat work-hardened; but the skin of ther throat and
cheeks was as white as cream. A flying gleam of sunset broke
through a low-lying western cloud and fell across her hair.
Presently she scrambled down the steep path to the little
nest of moss on the rocks beside the creek. Spray
from the rushing stream would keep the moss green all summer.

1 comment:

Hélène Deroubaix said...

your words are beautiful!