omething about a hard frost, the ground now an iced candy, brittle and crisp;

layer of white, petrified dust…

wander around these people like a bear cub drunk on cliche. They are fierce redwoods; I am docile sapling.

Each of them are a measure of something, each thing of which they are a measure being something different. They are fierce redwoods; I am docile sapling.

When the winds come and try to steal from them their ancient leaves, they creak like old houses urged on by slow ghosts. They are fierce redwoods; I am docile sapling.

I wonder if she cried when she died and if those tears were recorded in the rings beneath their skins. They are fierce redwoods; I am docile sapling.

In the morning, the small beasts come to nibble on my ears.

omething about a hard frost, the ground now an iced candy, brittle and crisp;

layer of white, petrified dust…