100 Words on Beauty

The fields of my childhood brought the fierce wild grace of primroses and thistles, protecting their tenderness with a ring of thorns. Mulberries and honeysuckle that burst purple sweet in your mouth. Shooting stars with silky recumbent petals, arched and hanging as if caught plummeting to earth.

Stand at the top of the hill and watch the whole field turn green to silver as the wind bends all the leaves one way. Or the shadow from one singular cloud racing over the ground to swallow you up one second, then release you back to nothing but a high blue sky.