grey day, your mouth is grim, your horizon, a clenched jaw. i am moving through you like a car past a field the color of missing color: what’s closest is a ruddy rush, what’s far away seems steady.
kf | Meadow Street, Littleton, NH
yes, sometimes, what lies ahead seems to lean with too much remind toward that we’ve left looming just behind. but there, see how those trees are not wrenched by a weeping released, see how there is no need to drench them yet with sorrow.