Let me have banjo and birdsong for as long as I shall live.
Each passing day is one day closer to soil, plants and flowers. Surviving winter comes first.
I feel like finding a soft piece of earth and sleeping the day away. Instead, I stretch my arms to the ceiling and yawn like a woman who has already grown bored of the week ahead. My heart howls for an adventure.
Medicine for the mind.
The flower pressing station.