Wapun Meadow rain fell and collected in the hollows of their palms

@Wardruna perhaps?


Despite the chill of winter, the day is bright. Poet is bright, too, her movements brisk for once. She has always been easily transformed by the act of ritual, slipping back into it as one would a familiar robe, a second skin. She tries not to dwell on whether or not it is an unearned bit of kindness she is giving herself. But she still does not believe in the gods and she knows this will not absolve her no matter how many times she begs at the altar's feet. It's selfish, and in that way, she can justify it.

She has managed to collect a small bundle of lavender: a stringy, hardy bunch, made mean by the cold, but surviving nonetheless. It feels appropriate. In the spring she will seek out violets and perhaps some sweet grass, but for now she is content with her findings, and gathers the bundle into her mouth as she walks across the meadow.