She is an invitation to love and embrace the feminine in its myriads of forms. She is light and the shadows through the trees. She is crisp cottons in summer and sun faded ginghams. She is sunflowers and vining black eyed susans that clamor against old stone cottages. She is worn in picket fences and lavender hedgerows. She is straw hats in summer and baskets. She is salt of the earth and white cosmos. A conversation that meanders over valleys of time over tea and coffee. She is joy tinged with grief. She is Vermont in Autumn and covered bridges, Juliet roses, and braids of garlic, and crisp pommeau from Normandie. She is forgotten graveyards pricked with wildflowers and honeysuckle grown wild. She is a gentle kiss on the nape of your neck. Berry stained lips and rosy cheeks. She is rudebekia, and fennel, and asters in old clay pitchers. She is Ophelia with levity. She is water and earth. Her heart and lips always warm. Her world is dappled with sunshine and when it rains, it's sheets of silver against a rolling green. She is a comfort, a confidante, a lover, a dear beloved friend. She is a warm breeze borne in the West from an old forgotten tale, dancing on sea foam, singing her siren song.

Notes on written in a notebook from 2020 when I first dreamed of starting Atèlette and asked myself..."Who is she?"