The Licorice limbed, giant trees are the first greeters upon our ascent to Sugar Dust House.
Their rustling leaves make a sound as if slowly drawing breath and releasing onto the supine ether….The lazy leaves will gently release…. awakening, when the stirring north winds terminate.
The leaves assemble and gather, like damp nutmeg parchment, underneath our languorous stepping.
The antiquated brick house, with it’s windows that have gone into the dark, are looking upon us.
Mottled and white, the old paint appears as if sugar dust, soft powdering held to form by many an Autumn eve’s damp and Winter sun fires.
I wonder what tale these erect stones will choose to release to me. I anticipate my entry through it’s door, an icy isolation is the only ceremony….I look within only to find a shelter, a great hush; except for the eerie, whistle lullaby pushing through an upstairs, forgotten window pane.