“I want to know my death
makes me no less part of the tree.
That dying can be as triumphant as tragic.
I want to know that the hope of rebirth
is just a season away.”
nature
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Bug bitten, blistered, sun burned, scratched. Ash on my clothes, dirt under my fingernails. Dressed in spider webs and fragments of grass and petals, little souvenirs to carry with me for awhile.
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This weekend was maybe one of the hardest since quarantine. I felt emotional at the grocery store, suspicious of people getting too close to me, anxious that they weren’t wearing a mask, that I was touching mine too often.
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The newly planted Hosta grows tall toward the ceiling in an orange terracotta pot just a shade off from the color of the wall above the fireplace. The dishwasher hums and swishes.…
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I’m feeling so much more fertile these days. Is there a way to describe the feeling of fertile without conjuring images of swollen feet and bellies? Of crying babies and glowing cheeks?…
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The snow makes crunching noises beneath my boots. The air is crisp and when the wind blows, bitterly cold, burning my cheeks. There are no tracks. The houses in the neighborhood are…