book

You deserve your beautiful life. Its expectant icicles, the dread forest that is not our forest. And yet, we meet there. The streams streaming through us. The leaves leaving through us.

Surely, even now, she is blackberrying trying to prove me wrong. She says, “Oh, I am only a trickling of looking good.” All this while her mouth is stained. And she loves it. She moves with more caring.

Among these trees you know we pitch together. Crouching ever closer. Orchard together.