The leaves from the Birch tree fall wistfully over the table, theres a lazy sway to each before they fall.
I arrange the table, the porcelain hands holding a fig in offering, a pale face amongst the red onions,
the incense alight and perfuming the world.
The backdrop of a Chinese temple, the table dipped in velvet.
A nostalgic purple,
the plum shade of nostalgia,
I saw a corner of my soul on the table, a desire to create a timeless world in which endless stories can be related,
retold, whispered, captured and kept secret.