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these verdant places, these green landscapes. all gentle and wild and curious landmarks that go on living inside of me. all these places that never get left behind.

i am still fey enough to believe in wishes. in the puffs of dandelion silk blown across a field and a few lucky pennies tossed from a small bridge.

nowhere but here. trees standing against the twilight sky. the filtering of dimming light through the leafy branches. i venture further down a trail in these woods than ive ever been before.

i'm forgetting what time it is. forgetting what month. what year it is. what exists beyond these forested acres. just settled into the rhythm of walking and breathing. just the now. forgetting where i live. forgetting how minutes are kept.

visionary virgina woolf left behind letters to join her soul with generations of other souls, i can still hear her voice: green and glowing and fertile, spinning new worlds for all her kindred to inhabit.

the sky is reflected in lake water. i could take off my shoes and wade into a mountain of soft tremors, pond ripples, and pink clouds. virginia woolf. the weight of her insurmountable grief. the weight of those heavy stones in her pockets. sinking, sinking.

desolate. no one following me here. a bend in the trail and suddenly everything here is enveloped by a shadow, the tree bark seems lit from within, an almost silvery emanating glow. the life within all things.

walking and thinking of a quote by thoreau: i would rather sit on a pumpkin and have it all to myself, than be crowded on a velvet cushion.

what are the leaves dreaming? what are the flowers and trees whispering? and the pond water? and the stones on the footpath? and the timber that makes the bridge? and the bending prairie grass? and the purple clover buds? and the sky in between the branches?

the piping of crickets and the drone of locusts. the lake water trickling through reeds and pond grass. green man moss floating in little pools along the bank. the far off cry of a warbler. it's late and there is just enough sun to turn around and walk back with.

mountain ash. fallen crab apples and sour berries. blue-winged dragonflies and grasshoppers crossing my path. then suddenly, something moving quickly in the dense thicket (a deer perhaps?) for a moment i think to wander off this marked trail.

im thinking, what it might be like right now to take this walk with someone i am close with. to hold hands for a little while. to share these vistas together.

queen annes lace and the summers of my own childhood. something right here at the lake conjures something so faraway. i used to bring bundles of it home to my mother and shed place the snowy flowers in a vase in our living room.

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