It’s November and the whole sordid, gorgeous, convoluted and crazed mess of a year comes dribbling out of the trees till there’s nothing left but bare existence – the skeletal sense of being branches and roots of hope tied to this earth.
“I Am” is a lone tree on a weathered hill, a forest overflowing the valley, rot and cambium, the ant’s long path and short life, stomata, stem, and spring.
For you, so used to finding satisfaction in temporary answers, Here, I leave you with none.