The Faerie Meadows

"Lines"

I have been spending substantial amounts of time out in the forest tending to dad's garden. Trying to upkeep the produce beds and wrap the fruit trees in cloth so they can withstand the harsh winter that will be here any day. I speak in positive tones to the plants and greet the rose bushes as old friends in hopes that they grow better. My dad always told me that if you speak life to something it will grow and become what it was created for. Being out in nature taking care of the Earth makes me remember what it was like to be with my Father. I haven't talked to Him since my dad died, perhaps out of anger, but moreso out of disbelief that a loving God could take away someone whom meant so much and had faith and ultimately lived a good life.
So in my spare time I write. Mostly frustrations, but occasionally something that crossed my mind in an unusual or maddening way. I have never been a believer in fairytales, superstitious or otherwise, but lately every bone in my body craves to be rescued like a damsel from this hopeless existence. I must be loony; Living on my own in this house has taken it's toll. The wood floors creak and the windows push large gusts of wind and rain in at random times. I focus on the wolves howling outside to try to go to sleep, but hear whispers instead. Look at me, Gwenevere Keats talking to plants and hearing voices when no one's around and I am all alone.