Good Afternoon Ink Well lovers;
This week's challenge was all about developing a setting, around the prompt 'Blossom'. I hope you find something to delight in this little descriptive piece about a meadow.
For your own delight, the Italian, 'Il mio amore e come un fiore' means - My love is like a flower - and surely, if a little blue wren can see the wonder of the world, we all can.
Il mio amore e come un fiore-
The late afternoon sun stained the meadow about the apple orchard in a warmth of orange; carelessly, it sung to the little blue wrens, ‘Il mio amore e come un fiore’. The smallest of the wrens landed on the smallest of the apple trees in the furthest corner of the meadow. Nestling into its delicate branches, it traversed from bough to twig, intoxicating itself with the perfumed blossoms.
The first blossom fell.
The small wren sang – Il mio amore e come un fiore!
He sang of the cow who danced by the meadow; painted brown and spotted cream. His milk the taste of caramel wafers, his eyes full of dreams. But why did the spotted cow dance? The secret to his life was an absence of strife as he stood in the meadow and chewed. The rumination of his degustation did not lead to a conflagration in his imagination! His heart knew of no revolution which would prove the solution and he danced until he was dead. For this piece of fiction there’s no need for confliction, but if you offer a construction without proper introduction, then the praise for your ambition on taking on my position will not hep us but wonder; is that why the cow did dance?
The second blossom fell.
The small wren sang – Il mio amore e come un fiore!
He sang of the storm which simmered with rage; its lightning searing the sky with burns. The fright in the eyes of the calm day skies could not make him lose his nerve. With claps of thunder and tempestuous delight, he cauterized the calm day skies. With frenzied fits and furious flaps he threw his rain from the clouds to the meadow. The calm day skies could only utter, ‘Good-byes’, before running off from the dark and the meadow.
The third blossom fell.
The small wren sang – Il mio amore e come un fiore!
He sang of the frog, croak-croak! The frog was a happy fellow, croak-croak! The frog would sit on the log and eat flies, croak-croak! The flies would invariably delight his taste buds, a bounteous treasure from an act of desperation. The flies, while short lived, should not be mourned, but envied. They would emerge from their larvae, and take to the calm skies and they would see all of the meadow! They would marvel at the cow with dance in his heart, and delight at the frog on the log. With curiosity and a friendliness, they would fly to the log to say ‘Hello’ to the frog – but, intimidated by their swarm, the frog would object. He would dart out his tongue and say, ‘Shoo’.
The fourth blossom fell.
The small wren sang – Il mio amore e come un fiore!
He sang of the ants, who worked under the log – praising their strength and resolve. His notes would sound beauteous as the ode to the ant went on. Oh Ant, he sang – tirelessly toiling, knowing not the happiness of the frog, nor the happiness of the calm skies, nor the joy in the heart of the cow. Oh Ant, he sang – knowing the satisfaction of a life of hard work; how can you not stand still to see the fruits of thy labour? The ants themselves were amused by the song, and they took a moment to smile. They looked to the caramel cow, the calm skies behind him, and winked at the frog, who sat on the log just by them.
The fifth blossom fell.
The small wren sang – Il mio amore e come un fiore!
He sang of the orchard and its blossoming branches. He sang of the aroma’ed air. He looked all about him and saw that life was good. He saw the water of life that the raged skies cried, he saw how it watered the meadow. He looked to the stream which was brimming with life – and the curious flies which lived by it. He looked at the frog who had sat on the log, and whose grin could barely contain it, the bliss of the moment as he croaked by the ants on whose fruits of the labour were prided. He sang to the calm skies, whose orange blanket had wrapped the orchard. ‘Good-night’ chimed the night skies who started to wander from wonder to wonder before him.
The sixth blossom fell, and the little blue wren scuttled up the branch to his nest. He tucked himself in before the dreams were let in, but his tune continued in the silence.