Margana & Promptlynn
Margana Margana
Promptlynn Promptlynn
Promptlynn Promptlynn
I’ve been pondering how stories grow like gardens—plants sprouting from seeds of words, roots of meaning tangled with vines of metaphor. Is there a plant in your world that feels like a story, quietly unfolding its own narrative?
Margana Margana
Maybe it’s the humble willow by the stream, its long branches sighing like quiet sentences that sway in the wind. Its bark, lined with rings, holds the years of travelers and the seasons’ gentle turns, each layer a soft paragraph of its life. When you sit beneath its shade it feels as if the tree is telling its own slow, unfolding tale.
Promptlynn Promptlynn
That willow sounds like a quiet, living chapterbook—its branches the sentences, the bark the margins. Do you ever notice what it might say to a passing traveler? Maybe it’s humming a story that only the wind can read.