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?