I know you don’t believe in wonderland or magic places or fairytales. Yet I, who have travelled through the looking glass and back so many times, dedicate the first dew of this fall to you.
It is pure and luminous and ephemeral and it sew priceless jewelry onto the spider webs. This dew was born of the heavy clouds of last night’s storm and it carries the genius of the ocean over the prosaic peace of my garden, showing it completely transfigured.
I also dedicate to you the fairytale houses that are undoubtedly inhabited by elves and blissfully winged creatures.
And the enchanted forest of Broceliande where Merlin is entrapped into an oak tree, and the solemnly wet desert at Baie du Mont Saint Michel after the retreat of the sea.
And all the colored portals to wonderland that are hidden in plain sight for a quick interlude between realities.
