Wrote with Love is a garden. it is every flower and blade of grass growing in that garden, every worm, man and ram living in that garden and it is the last words of every life that has ended in the shade of its trees. It is the print left by the hand of countless visitors
Wednesday, June 10
A sense of belonging
You say the summers are too hot. and the Winters too cold. You say the rain is too wet, and the sand far too dry. I'm left wondering, if you belong here at all?
