fig | lemon | cedar | copaíba | musk | marine notes
At the end of an August afternoon or he beginning of September, leaving the rice fields behind, we go into the fields almost up the mountain, in a dry heat, roasted and hot yellow. We throw the blanket on the floor, open the basket with fresh lemonade, and lie down to read a book with a view of the foothills right next door. Under a fig tree.
SCENTED CANDLE BRAVO
interior bronze painted glass vase
Towards the end of a long, languid summer’s day – we drift up to the sun-baked meadows at the foot of the ochre mountains. Dry heat on our backs, the air thick with sensuous warmth. We spread a blanket on to the hot ground, open the wicker basket and reach for fresh lemonade. We lie down to read a book – cicadas playing – in the dappled shade of a fig tree.
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