skin for bark (but where do the dead leaves fail and flail and fall?)

i know where we're standing. and i know why. and i'm accepting of the roots now growing into the ground where we stand. and i would be perfectly fine in keeping it all this way.

but whyohwhyohwhyohwhyohwhyohwhyohwhy do i want to yank my feet from out the soil? why is it so hard for me to reach out and touch your hand? and why do i branch out in that direction in the first place?





















but what else is there left to say? what questions haven't already been answered? what earth hasn't already been tilled to the point of digging my own grave (yet again)?

i can't stop this, so i'm just going to have to lean into the wind and hope i don't wither from a dreaded lack of moisture. and listening to the howling outside, i'm in for a treat. not to mention i have to talk to maitenence about getting the sash of my window fixed so that it stops blowing open.

-d

postscript: the wind was almost this powerful two days ago, at around this time. i wonder which change came upon me.

(image courtesy of Robert and Shana ParkeHarrison)