Orange peels. Cinnamon sticks,  season of the witch.  Mary Jane’s and socks with frills,  there’s bows and scarves, and I think pip mentioned bread.  Or berries. The air makes me think of ink pens,  the kind that smudge on the page and leave reminders on your hands all day long.  That’s not a summer pen,…

She is the Darling Doe, Made flesh with the curves of a woman, A love letter to the meadows her mother roams. The windows to her soul dance with a marriage of honey and chocolate, As if the spirit of innocence from the terrified doe was captured on the face of a woman. Mercury does…