Not Telling Anything New

Npt Ielling An Charlotte Matthews You probably know this is a box of gold, woman throwing ashes on the turned garden, the snow that comes down, wind soughing the meadow. I am trying to see things as they are but the moon might disappear while you are looking, the ocean cease to dwell in the sea glass you hold. I was afraid of losing him and it happened. Leaves decompose in water the rain left, tiny punched holes elaborate as lace. The only way I know how to say this is still not right. I saw a bird carry her daughter over the Great Strand River. It gets cold. It gets dark. There are bright specks on the snow. Come, quick, before they fly away. 149 ...