the wild licorice rattles golden beneath my feet, and ankles adorned in rhythms of late summer leaf, we buried the spring in purple bloom, and gathered beneath the waning moon, we watched the mountain turn green to gold, "we," he whispered, "will never grow old."
And just that like that, I lit all my clothes on fire. The stretched out, oil-stained, ripped up and torn through remnants of another life; another way of being, seeing, believing; another timeline ~ up in flames, up in smoke, toast. Ah, Dios. Gathering.
