i remember lying down under a tree, and staring at the sun from the shade of the roof of branches and leaves. i wasn't alone, though. i had the fallen down dried figs watch over me, this wierd little girl.
everything in this garden was wierd anyways; figs as large as that of your palm. i would always find them somewhere, everywhere. whether it be fallen down on the grassy bed, or buried underneath, or even in my basket.
fresh from the tree, and also the ones being preserved by the sun.
they tasted like sweet pleasure, rich with seeds and pulp. you had to pick them at the right time, after Apollo had scorched them with his glare, but left them just overly ripe on the inside.
YOU ARE READING
Juno
PoésieJuno. she is the summer in a thousand and thirty four ways. she aimed for the sun, because it felt just right. but she went too close, it scorched her skin with sweet warmth. And it made her stomach burn with honey, bees tickling and buzzing like t...
