For months, people have accepted the line—a single-file march that curls through the town. No one knows where it ends or when it started; they only know to stay. It stretches a great distance, down th
And so you grieve Never to let me cede Ever the lasting greed To control your constant needs And so I’d die That future son of mine Would love to imply The only time he’d rest, is the day he’d die And
Close and intimate, my roots mingle with those of the pines. Nettles cushion the floor, opening the forest to an unshakable quiet. My leaves brush against my neighbors’ as we sing the song of seasons,