Blossomdrift’s shelf

A small glass jar has been gifted to Blossomdrift by Holyviolet, which can be seen on the shelf of gifts.

Blossomdrift has also been entrusted with Cloudsway‘s shelf

Notes on a constellation

The boat and the anchor, in memory of AA

A Night Falls poem

the tides flo, bright friends
drink coffee
may health reel in bitter harm
raise our feet

A winged creature, which makes this sound whenever anyone is near
Photos, taken at the end of a journey to the old witch’s hut and garden on Hearthgazer‘s map
A mushroom poem (inspired by Treewalker‘s long dozen)

soft thunderstorm
rumbles far away, feels close, warm, metallic
I wander towards it, damp with sweat, following myself

A cairn, telling this story

I saw them planting their garden on one of the small farms. It was early, no more than an hour past dawn, the dew still lingering bright on the grasses. Their garden was a rambling swathe of blooms, herbs, and seedling vegetables.

‘Your garden is beautiful,’ I said.

They turned their head and smiled at me, inclining their head slightly but making no vocal response. Extending one soil-smudged hand, they beckoned me in amongst the greening and blossoming.

I crouch with them to look at the plants. Delicate woodruff nestled amid bushy parsley and coriander, lending a sprinking of white star flowers. Bugleweed held blue flowers aloft on strong stems, stretching out its runners along the ground below. Peashoots clambered eagerly up towards the sunlight, tendrils grasping onto sticks to support their way.

As I leant over to catch the vanilla scent of sweet rocket, they noticed the map clutched in my hand and gestured a question.

I told them about the letter, about how I found the way here.

Recognition kindled in their eyes as I mentioned a name, and they picked up a basket beside them with packets of seeds stacked inside. The packets were formed of brown paper folded over, carefully annotated with the names of vegetables and herbs, and stamped also with your name. They picked one up to show me the tiny, carefully-saved seeds which rested inside. 

They poured out some seeds into my palm. Together we pushed them into the sun-warmed soil, covered them over, and pressed our hands to the earth in a shared spell. 

I told them about planting my own garden, about the anxiety of releasing control into the dark earth, about the bittersweet joy of putting down roots knowing they will be pulled up. I stopped talking then and we planted the seeds in the easy silence of the warming morning sunlight.

When the seeds were planted, we parted with a smile, and I took the winding path away through the thorn trees.

A long dozen poem

the sea sky
clouds break like waves – sun gone in shadow then
returns. breathe. gaze at the blue ’til you start to cry, or stop

A mushroom poem inspired by this sits on Vaseridge‘s shelf

A map, with this note attached

You can gather birdsong through Hawthornvale in the early morning, but remember to bring bread for the sparrows, cheese for the finches, and a kitkat for the magpie.

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