every leaf is a flower,

and every tree is a twiddling thumb,
During morning, the sun opened my book of paper lines, and I wrote a story.  The story was dipped in hunger panes, and hidden desire.  In my head,  I was writing an entry to my own journal. A genuine story about a girl who dims the sun with her frown. One day, she follows bird seed,  until, she discovers her lover bathing in fruit water.   Some folks dream through cola bottles, night hours, crops through airplane windows,   I dream through story telling. 
Autumn is a story keeper too, weaving it's own tale. A story or song about harvests, wrinkled petals,  and feet meeting golden leaves.  The season is Mother Nature's gift,  spreading hugs across the meadow, with stains of gold, and rouge.  I've always been attached to Autumn's bringing.  The soft winds blow, and pull the leaves from the tree spine. The scattered foliage dance,  the wind moans.

Delicious autumn! My very soul is wedded to it, and if I were a bird I would fly about the earth seeking the successive autumns. ~George Eliot
To celebrate the Autumn's hour, I wore my newly crafted crown (My mom and I made)..  It's the first of it's kind. I've never attempted floral-crown-making before.  I am so happily pleased. Carter calls it "the queen of the harvest crown".  He plays pretend, and tells me "When you wear your crown, it's as if your calling the cold front, and the changing season. As if your playing in the pumpkin patch, asking for Autumn"    Inside of my chest, Autumn brings charm. 

It was one of those perfect English autumnal days which occur more frequently in memory than in life. ~P.D. James

Love, and celebrations. x

See you soon,  (for the stray dog roaming the city: please find your way home, settle back into your bed,       x)

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what i wore
jacket- goodwill $8
dress- mama stone vintage $40
flower crown- handmade by momma + me.

The harvest crown,

Hello people made of sugar,
the weather is casting spells on the trees, we call this Autumn.  The season,  where green leaves become yellow flowers.
The season,  where a soft wind carries the leaflets from our native trees.

Here is a preview of yesterday's photo outing. 
My mom and I rested our feet on the crunch, allowing the breeze to tickle our blush.   
The air is warm with the sun, and cold with the wind. 
Autumn brings the artist out of Our Mother Nature.   
I want to spend my day gazing upon fields, and orange bouncing treetops.

A composed blog post with the other photos will be done by Tonight/Tomorrow.  I want to post frequently, but school/illness/reality, they all keep me from day dreaming.  Hopefully, with fingers crossed, and toes entwined,  I'll become a "regular" blogger by next week.

Here's to you, my harvest crown.

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"The woods are full of fairies; the sea is full of fish; the trees are full of golden leaves; let's make an autumn wish."
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*(p.s) still working on the layout... hope you'll like the finished look!))


new blog layout!

((currently revamping the blog))

sorry if there's a mess here today..
Flying a Kite is in the midst of a new blog lay out..

See you soon! x

I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the vegetation,

I am eating apples, masked in gentleness, dreaming of one hundred acres.
Lately, I've been feasting on drips of lemon water, and the bewilderment of leaves.   The summer tints of white flowers, and exposed foliage are whirling into abandon. Orange flecks, and yellow sparks are frisking every Oak Tree.  Autumn is here, and our maps become stained with a new season.

The weeks are passing.  Straying, and leaving wrinkles on the vintage folk.
I've been coating myself in school feathers.  Short stories about lonely planets, grammar musings, and banana bread for cooking class.  I am thankful I live in a world full of warm tea, and soapy water baths.    If it wasn't for the sensations of warmth in my belly, I might belong to the cobwebs. If it wasn't for flower crowns, banjo songs, and soft palms,   I might fall... slow and tired,  like the working mule.

With freckles of sunlight in my eye, and an evocation of love surrounding me,  I can drift deeply. I can wander towards a foreign earth, a home where worries migrate, just like the wild fowl.  My black dog, my cotton bed, and a book of poems cast their spells, and suddenly, I can drink my milk without spilling.  It's as if sprites hang like shapes of cotton above me.

It is here, I roam. Towards peace of mind, and playfulness. 

The afternoon teapot is singing, my cup is empty,  and I am thirsty.   This weekend brings me towards sun kissed Autumn, take out Friday,  Fashionsign magazine launch party,  and lots of charm-dropping sprites.  Kisses from me, to you, to your pa, to your ma, to your spoon.

“Happiness, not in another place but this place...not for another hour, but this hour.”

title quote, and "quotations"  by walt whitman
photography by carter
words by amy

what i wore
high waisted jeans- vintage from cats eye vintage(local boutique) $40
striped top- Good Will(thrifted) $5
rabbit ring- The Bay $24 (thanks mum) x



O You,
Who came upon me once
Stretched under apple-trees just after bathing,
Why did you not strangle me before speaking
Rather than fill me with the wild white honey of your words
And then leave me to the mercy
Of the forest bees.
—Amy Lowell (1920)

Those who don’t feel this Love
pulling them like a river,
those who don’t drink dawn
like a cup of spring water
or take in sunset like supper,
those who don’t want to change,

let them sleep.

I want to be
loved like
a sunbeam
that is
it comes
across the room
or the ocean
you know the
way I drive
I want to lift
your fear
like a bonnet
and kiss
your living
face. Here
this is
mine. Don’t
—Eileen Myles

The difficulty to think at the end of day,
When the shapeless shadow covers the sun
And nothing is left except light on your fur?

There was the cat slopping its milk all day,
Fat cat, red tongue, green mind, white milk
And August the most peaceful month.
— Wallace Stevens

Sometimes when we lie in bed
you turn your back asking for a scratch.
With my left hand I hold my book
and with the other I stroke
up and down along your spine–
a simple act–connecting.
Something surges up my arm
I want to remember–the warm skin
against the unread lifeline in my palm.
In the ease of this communion
I commission my fingertips to store up
the good of you for days of famine
when your fragile heartbeat may be
scattered on the land. To find you then
I’d dig my fingers into the unmown grass,
the plot of earth behind your music room,
stroke the ribbed tree where you hung
the squirrel feeder. I’d dip my hand
into the lake and hold it there. I want
to hold off death, yours and mine,
as long as I can reach across the bed
to scratch your back and wake up later
to the rhythm of your breathing.
What could death want with us
who take our pleasure from so light a touch.
—Kay Putney Gantt
I am.
A girl pulling pebbles from her pocket,
as honeysuckles press to the grassy sands,
skipping stone to the river bed,
with these wasted hands.

Foliage of the woodland,
changes slower than my will.
Honey oak blends by earthly moss,
digging a grave for the ant hill.

In the forest of my uneven parts,
the benign heart turns to hair,
I am the blame of my lover,
to become dust without care.

Birds and branches anchor my braids,
As sea gloom plucks my core,
Once, there was cherry wood on the table.
Now, I'm back to the seashell less shore.

I pack my travelling clothes,
and I call to the mourning mountain.
It is time for me to go,
It is time for me to go.
—Amy Nelson

born a vagabond, with two left paws, wedlock to a mountain man, now a workhorse to love's unwritten laws.
—Amy Nelson
-life magazine cover November 1913

A museum outing, and poetry.  Inspiration for my Sunday.
I'm planning on doing more inspirational postings, art/poetry sharing, and regular features on the blog. Also, a new layout is on it's way. Fingers crossed for happy days.  (comments are disabled for this post, but feel free to comment on the previous one! let me know what features I should add to flying a kite..your suggestions mean mountains to me..xx hugs)
I love you.

(photographs taken by me, words of my teachers)