my book is still a baby

The tree does not reach skywards out of self-interest, bud out of vanity, provide out of self-gain, or wilt out of despair. It is fundamentally connected and seasonally attuned as but a piece of the greater whole.

Never be too balanced to miss out on harmony.

A vanishing pedigree of wild things and child things.

Folding words into the sides of my cheeks like fat grapes.

There were so many moments in which I thought I had it.

A world collecting in my hands.

Its filth and its goodness gathering beneath my fingernails.

Will I have enough todays to build my tomorrows? Will I have enough tomorrows despite my yesterdays?

On the chest of the earth, nestled in her collarbone, playing in the grass.

The word “Magic” parts your teeth, and opens your mouth up as if you’re about to eat something really good.

Tempting lives into this world.