There was wind in the door

It's always the tell

Now it's open and the path is there

Why does it mean so much to me? 

So much now that it's here?

Why does it matter?

Kneeling into the sticks

All brown and composting earth

But it's cold a little bit

And the trees are bare as birth

And the dirt is so soft beneath my hands

And a roly poly digs back in 

And I am under the tallest glass

Widest, widest pane of gas

The very smallest parts of me

Do they, in fact, look like this tree?

The roots in my eyes the same under my feet

Why repeat if obsolete?


Happy Birthday ►


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