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
Saturday, October 17
Bird of a feather
eighteen feathers of a different shade spread across two wings in order they were laid erupting from the leaves, in the open to be seen leaving the branches, where they had always been.
