I keep forgetting to dispose of those flowers. They've been sitting on my table for weeks, wilting and dropping petals like flies that have overstayed their welcome.
The flowers were a gift from the farmer down the road, whom I helped catch a runaway goat. He gifts me often, with cheeses, berries and jams. I feel that I must return his favors and leave a jar or two of honey or some fabric that his eldest daughter could use.
I kept the withered petals and leaves, making tea out of them for rainy mornings. Perhaps the farmer down the road would like some, over toast and jam.
YOU ARE READING
Ekphrastic pieces
Short StoryPieces of writing based off of art. Typically poetry, but I'm expanding it past that.
