"You're more poet than anything." I folded my arms and glared at Ian. He sat perched on the edge of the roof, dressed like an adventurer. I coveted every part of his outfit -- the breezy shirt made of course cloth, the sturdy breeches, the leather boots that laced up to his calves, the dagger on his hip. Tomorrow he would set sail to a life I craved more than anything. But did he appreciate his opportunities? No. And I hated him for it. "Do you despise poets, Ingrid?" His voice was sad, but a grin twisted at the corners of his mouth as he finished his question. Those blue eyes of his cut in my direction with a teasing flash. "They don't DO anything." My thoughts and emotions ran in torrents, but I could see his flowing smoothly and quietly. Even in his uneasiness about the morrow, his face was a peaceful as a child falling asleep in his own bed. ...

Yes! A lot of the time, the picture is only in my head, but there's been several times when I've found an actual picture, as well. I love pictures. I hoard them, my laptop is full of them to the point where I'm clearing them off into Google Drive just so my PC isn't overloaded.
ReplyDeleteThat picture, for example. It's beautiful. (Though most of my pictures are funny, faces, or scenery.)
the writeress @ barefoot in the snow