“If you are in the garden, I will dress myself in leaves.”
– Mary Oliver
Wake up—lights are on. No one home. Barefeet hit cold floor, walk to the kitchen. Through the window there is a grey backyard. Stretch, illuminated dust glows, swirls as you exhale. The world is moving, floating, underneath you, above you.
Somewhere outside, there are leaves whispering—where have you gone?
The past is used up, it flickers out with a hollow whimper.
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