Along a quiet path amidst twilight's gentle light, a lone Witch peered at a rose bush in concern. Though new blossoms had yet to spread their delicate petals, those of the early season's blooms had browned and shriveled to dried-out husks- remnants of their former glory. Yet the stem and sepals surrounded those dead roses was still green and new.
The plant should invest its nutrient-fueled energy into feeding the new blooms, not attempting to resurrect what was already passed... with time, perhaps the rose bush would come to recognize the futility of its final attempts to honor the past and redirect the course of its inner workings. Would it be too late to save the new life?
This rose bush was a volunteer, had grown from a seed cast by the wind on a solitary path that belonged to no single house. She had seen it in passing every now and then, had watched it grow- nurtured by kind strangers and passers-by. Tenders of beauty, care-takers of the natural world... gardeners who saw potential outside their own enclosed playgrounds, if you will.
Mia sighed, a gentle sound like the whispers of tree's leaves coaxed into existence by a mellow wind. Though it was not her place to interfere, she knew not whether another soul would pass who would recognize the plight of this poor plant... and whether they would care enough to act before rushing on to dine after the day's trials.
She knelt before the winding stems and caressed the stem softly, her dainty fingers tracing the edges of cruel thorns without puncturing her soft skin. She traced the stem up towards the first sepals of living-dead transitions, and as her fingers curled around the dead flower she drew a great breath and pulled... it came easily, as though the plant knew it was time to let go and yet couldn't bear to see the petals fall.
Her dress was of a translucent material, delicate lace framing the edges of the soft fabric. Though modest folds covered her bodice, her sun-touched skin showed through on her arms and legs. Tumbling to just past her waist were layers of shimmering green hair, the ends of which now trailed the dusty path. She wore no shoes, to better feel the landscape and remain in contact with the natural world. Warm brown eyes gazed upon the rose bush as her quick fingers moved freely, nails tinted a shade similar to fresh-turned earth (and reminiscent of her woodland eyes) casting shadows in the fading light.
The Witch whose tea was Garden Whisper began to prune the rose bush, making a neat pile in her lap.
