This was absolutely the last time the bearer of the seed would give a gift that was singularly meant for her and only her. Seeds that grew into little voices that giggled and whispered and laughed like the gentle murmurs of the sea, with blue eyes that beckoned the same as its reflected white tipped bubble-bath waves. This was the last time. The seed bearer was long gone. Gone by choices of his own it would seem, distant, but still exactly where he was meant to be for this season that seemed so elongated for the one who had always been so delighted by his gifts. Her understanding limited by the daily passing of the yellow softly glistening on the pale strands of her little gifts, and the bluest moon reflected again in innocent eyes.
Day and night was so long for her. Often so long that the voices of the little seeds sounded like noise where musical rhymes had once fallen, and blue eyes beckoning her to dreams so sweet seemed bleak eyes begging for more than she had to offer, and she could not seem to find her own gifts to give.
The littlest seed was not unlike the seed bearer himself. His eyes translucent in colors created to comfort, as if hand-painted by the soft haired tip of a gentle brush wielded by a purposeful artist. And the little seed grew with words that washed the sands on the shore soft, and smiles that made all the other seeds shine more lovely in his presence.
The little seed needed her tending, a word of water, refreshment for stretching arms and roots seeking the solidity of the seed bearer. Shimmering mirror in which to peer and find portraiture of the seed bearer himself. She needed to reach her own arms into the passing yellow and wrap them around the moon so blue and hold the little seed until it stretched strong armed to bear blue eyed giggling gifts drawn innocent as the bearer of the seed, and then to open wide hands beautiful made by the given gifts and release them to bear again.
She needed to give from hands empty, his fullness.
She had thought the seed bearer had left her, his gifts a distant wave washed melody. She had believed his lilting laughter would wash never again eyes turned up to smile upon his goodness. She has believed in his absence no presence could make blue and yellow the symbol of his daily gifts.
She was wrong.