mundane treasures, things that are sweet, daydreams, nightdreams, musings, and love stories.
Friday, November 12, 2010
Quietly he sat between the folds of a tree trunk
As my little hooves begin to scramble. And they scrape the half frosted ground that is melted by mid-day. Words are not sentences with you, but smoke signals. And your streamer of ash twirls upwards and disipates. I fell asleep with my legs in the air.