Quiet and dark.
The crickets could not be found.
The stars all hiding their glow.
And in a garden devoid of sound
We see a lily grow.
She grew quietly. She grew tall.
With brown eyes and dark hair
The air was still hot and muggy, the days harsh and sunny. Sometimes though, a biting breeze would roll in, knocking the windchimes around, and setting the fields aflow. It was those days one could find her, scaling every tree in the yard, bouncing through the garden, even searching for fellow late bloomers. She was in good company, though. The flowers whispered through it all, remaining as the others fell. She embraced the cold with open arms; she waited for it every year–the first few golden days that existed somewhere in the space between summer and autumn, days where the blue hours overtook the golden summer sun and still battled with dusty, autumn greys. Finally, she found; she was content.