S E V E N o f P E N T A C L E S
Reaping reward for effort and work, a calm moment of consideration of alternatives and different approaches.
She stands in a verdant garden that she has lovingly tended, guardian dryad the wood. The peaches are ripe -- a magical energy writhing in each lush globe. Peaches are a fruit of summer, of long days of relaxation. Their nectar is honeyed longevity. To pluck them or no? Will they still sparkle with that living glow once taken from the tree, or will they just become dull as the normal fruit in her basket? The tattooed waves churn on her body with her speculation.