writing

Mountain Laurel

 

Her name was Laurel just like the flowers that covered the mountains in the spring. Her face told the story of her life, every wrinkle a new chapter, every line contained a tale.

She was old as the mountains and as young as the buds on the trees. On warm days you could see her with her white sunbonnet on flitting amongst the shade trees gathering herbs and roots.

At night you could see her carrying a lantern through the trees communing with the wisps and the haints. Everyone said it was just foxfire but I knew it was her.

I first meet her when I was fairly young playing in the cool dampness by the creek. I was laying on the lush green moss, dangling my feet in the water, watching the clouds drift by. I felt the earth surround me as only the ancient forest of the mountains can.

I saw an angel ray peak from between two clouds. I turned my head and followed the ray to the ground and that is when I first saw her. There she was. Dancing amongst the morels in a long white cotton nightgown. her dark hair blowing all around her in the gentle breeze, she had no idea or care that she was being watched.

Being a child of the mountains I knew that if you were quite long enough you would see all kinds of things. I lay there and watched her dancing in the angel ray for what seemed like hours. There was something magical about her, a beautiful young girl just on the edge of womanhood.

 

 

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