What is it?
I was once observant towards the tracks bunnies made them when I see them in a silent appearance escort and my son in puma pants built in escort outwards.
A cordial hi to another species and branch of the backyard microbiome
No plots to toil or I’d be held accountable: for fucking up a perfect thing I made.
That’s the resistance that toasts me in grace, for wins and for personal clauses: I’ve done enough
What else could be grazing my attention?
In backyard soil I told at making perfect place to write
And here I am
No Pit nor Valley.
Just growth
Somehow blindly, I knew it’d work out that way.
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