BIRCH GROVE

My feet take control of me and drag my body — laden with self-criticism and sourness — to a place where it can be repaired. I am led off the path and up into the secrecy of a wooded hill. Black-peated water seeps from the spongy floor over the rim of my boots. Through the wetness I am connected to the winter earth; touching the vitality of growth in stasis.  I am brought by the…

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