The day is painted in vivid colours with vibrant brush strokes. She could hear the collective sigh of new growth all around her. Fern heads unfurl; bud casings crack open; the world is myriad shades of green. She walks along a path lacing through the woods; bird song burbling above. All is familiar, yet new.

The forest opens into a wide meadow. She passes a a small mounded hill covered in exquisite wildflowers; shades of yellows, oranges and reds. As she bends down to pluck one, the flowers dissolve into butterflies, swirling around her for a moment, their whisper-soft wings brushing her skin. Then continuing to rise, disappearing upward in the achingly blue sky.

Some one is lilting her name. The musical voice hums within her, stirring feelings of remembrance. She turns toward the sound . . .

He watches his daughter sleeping., She snuggles deeper into the bedding, a half-smile illuminating her face. He leans down to kiss her cheek. “Sleep well, little one,” he whispers, “and dream your mother home.”

for mlmm tale weaver “dream a little dream of me

for the little girl’s bedtime stories, see:

a father’s tale; a mother’s dance

a wintering’s tale