Feste's Lute

A simple scene in the shadows of many trees. The ground and lower trunks littered with patches of light from the late morning sun. Mischevious eyes dart two and fro from behind one of the trees, and a bewildered laughing boy stands spinning about calling, trying to find the one who has filled his heart with this delight. In another moment he had snatched her and spun her round to face him. This game would not end til the next turn when softness filled the boy’s eyes and neither could bear any sort of distance.

A quiet smile and a whispered question. At the response, a peal of laughter and hands held tighter. A sigh barely heard and a head finds a shoulder and for a while there is stillness. 

In their hearts they still race around, their eyes gently tracing each feature of the other’s face, and carving it on the old tree in their heart of hearts. Then the awe becomes too much and tears begin to fall in unison from each of their eyes. Being too precious to waste they press closer and let their cheeks melt together and mingle that precious rain of passion. Eventually the boy leans moves slightly and kisses the last tear from her eye. 

So they sit, and lips brush in simple adoration, bringing the sun to it’s full brilliance and the trees quit swaying for the glory of it. 

All this, do you marvel? You should, for this is just what happens when she says, “Hello, my sunshine,” and he says, “good evening, dearest.” Such extravagance, from whence does it come? We may not speak of it.