for the piglets kittens fawns and calfs,

Hello clouds, books, stars, flower painted stockings, howls of the wild dog. Hello October.
When I wake in the morning to the coffee pot, and the sugar,  I also stretch to cravings, and sighs. I have been dreaming lately. More than the common dream. Ordinarily, my pipe dreams taste like love, daffodil petals, mayflower trees, and ocean salt.

Suddenly, there are dreams of waywardness, spine tickles, paint splashing white wood, dirt on knuckles, and simplicity.  No dreams of noble men, rivers, wedlock, or martians.   I've been dreaming of days as an infant, a seedling, a bud, a girl.

(It's not easy to write with hiccups..)

  Before I knew the calendar's steam, or the sound of the moon. Before I knew whiskey drips, or heart shaped quarrels. Before I knew touching one's lips to another, before morality, or sin.  Before burials, gray rains, shiver spells, or poetry. Before I felt the forest, and it's animals. Before landlocked, and belly ached, and bundle of nerves. Before charms, and guitar-bent fervor. Before the bearded, and the blue eyed. 
Before wrinkles, and uneven coverings,  before double digits. 

  When I was a child, I belonged to the mountain's bottom. The peak above me, like a clouded rose, sightly, and shaped for adventure.  With mismatched socks, and muddy overalls, I devoted myself to the climb. For seedlings, buds, and girls, the gold is not found in the arrival of the peak, but the departure towards the mountain.   Every waking dream, head trip, and fond hope in October is sung by baby breath.  I miss my girlhood, the springtime of life. When happiness was hands for a paintbrush,  and wool-made bears were companions. Blankets for songs, and pillows for poetry.

This outfit is an ode to all that is young. young at heart, young at bones, young at song.

  "So the tree rustles in the evening, when we stand uneasy before our own childish thoughts: Trees have long thoughts, long-breathing and restful, just as they have longer lives than ours. They are wiser than we are, as long as we do not listen to them. But when we have learned how to listen to trees, then the brevity and the quickness and the childlike hastiness of our thoughts achieve an incomparable joy. Whoever has learned how to listen to trees no longer wants to be a tree. He wants to be nothing except what he is. That is home. That is happiness."
by Herman Hesse



                                                                     what i wore* skirt-  zara $15wedges- atseoul.com $45 white sweater- thrift store value village $7
floral tights- H&M $10

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