There is a place where the vines wither and
the earth’s lushness suddenly begins to fade.
In this place the ground cries out to us.
Not with blood, no.
But with ageless liminality.
What went before cannot remain.
And what will be is still unwritten.
Let our bodies linger.
As our pasts fall behind.
And our souls seek comfort.
As we descend greater into the fields of our unknowing.
Though there are no fruits in the fallowness here
There is still space to move and time to seed.
In the uncertain future of the world’s in-between.
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