longing. pitted. dimpled. alone.
As a blushing crawl, I learned to pout, and smack my lips on rotten wood.
of fingers. of sweat. my companion.
I spent seedlings, cotton, firewood, and milky pen shapes. I spent numbers. Wandering past damsels, and pony eyed suitors. Some plucked mare's hair, some dined in boxes, some didn't dine at all. I tickled pebbles.
We could marry beneath the June Tree. pressing white feathers to our tresses.
we could axe the redwood down, and use it for our cradle.
Writing by Amy Nelson.
Photographs for Blog post tomorrow..*