24 August 2024 @ 03:55 pm
you have reached the address penned invisibly onto your chest.  

In time the grass takes seed, struggles up, blankets the dirt and you within it; you see through the green and the wayward wildflowers. In time the farmers repair the shattered windows, the crumbled brick. They till the fields; they turn you up; they wash you and lift you and carry you to deeper, denser, darker dirt, so that perhaps the corners of their fields will be foreign again. In time the sun rises, falls; the moon slivers and fattens; the grass rots and sprouts. Somewhere else there are people loving. The roots of the trees reach towards you, as if to console you.

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