~*~ Word Garden ~*~

Sometimes a person can’t help but love a book for the words alone — for meandering passages that may not advance the plot; for descriptions that shimmer on the page, even if they slow the narrative from an eyelash blink to the laziness of caramel malingering on the tongue; for details that season the reading experience, the lines chewy when recited out loud.

“The Barry garden was a bowery wilderness of flowers which would have delighted Anne’s heart at any time less fraught with destiny. It was encircled by huge old willows and tall firs, beneath which flourished flowers that loved the shade. Prim, right-angled paths neatly bordered with clamshells, intersected it like moist red ribbons and in the beds between, old-fashioned flowers ran riot. There were rosy bleeding-hearts and great splendid crimson peonies; white, fragrant narcissi and thorny, sweet Scotch roses; pink and blue and white columbines and lilac-tinted Bouncing Bets; clumps of southernwood and ribbon grass and mint; purple Adam-and-Eve, daffodils, and masses of sweet clover white with its delicate, fragrant, feathery sprays; scarlet lightning that shot its fiery lances over prim white musk-flowers; a garden it was where sunshine lingered and bees hummed, and winds, beguiled into loitering, purred and rustled.”

Anne of Green Gables

Lucy Maud Montgomery

In this fast-paced day and age, the loss of words for words’ sake saddens me. If only, from time to time, we could slow down our lightning-fast plots and forsake brevity … to languish in the word garden … to hug the blooms as close as bosom-friends and breathe in their wordy perfume.

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