What the ground has said is but a memory to me now. It has no cause but its own. It speaks in cracks and dampness, it whispers in the grass. It is and can be no other way. In the shards of its broken sleep it stirs, sleeping neath an orange gold mantle turned to white in winter.
What the ground has said is but a memory to me now.
But for my feet on the cold earth, taking the coldness into my bones like a root feeding up my spine and into my head.
I remember what the ground has said.
No comments:
Post a Comment