Dance in the Full Moon

O, the Frailty of Memory

Monday, October 29, 2018

10.29

I stoop and turn the grass with a trowel. My detector is screaming on the grass nearby, my heart beat ringing in my ears, the dirt soft and wet. My favorite hammer is calling back to me. All the old boards, frames, forms still standing—and their father mouldering in the dirt. Come back, sweet creator of my home. Come back.

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