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sykomora
sykomora
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The memory of summers spent far from the city.
A small house on the edge of the village. Sunlight coming through old curtains. Wooden floors warmed by the heat. The leaves of the fig tree you watched grow lean in through the window. The smell of dry grass, tree bark and earth, carried on the breeze.
You leave the house and disappear for hours into the woods. Branches brush your arms, insects hum somewhere beneath the heat, and your pockets fill with things you decided were treasure. Under the trees the air changes: cooler, greener, damp with moss and earth.
Sykomora smells like coming home at the end of the day, with dirty hands and skin still warm from the sun, while the fig tree lets its scent in through the open window.
The memory of summers spent far from the city.
A small house on the edge of the village. Sunlight coming through old curtains. Wooden floors warmed by the heat. The leaves of the fig tree you watched grow lean in through the window. The smell of dry grass, tree bark and earth, carried on the breeze.
You leave the house and disappear for hours into the woods. Branches brush your arms, insects hum somewhere beneath the heat, and your pockets fill with things you decided were treasure. Under the trees the air changes: cooler, greener, damp with moss and earth.
Sykomora smells like coming home at the end of the day, with dirty hands and skin still warm from the sun, while the fig tree lets its scent in through the open window.
