(and not only in the springtime)
I thought about how wonderfully strange it would be to live in a place where almost everything had been built by the dead.
– John Green, The Fault in Our Stars
Her story is more cobbled
than quilted, more scattered
than sown. She’s owned no
-thing and hailed no king
and weathered too many
storms to hope to anchor
roots between the stones.
she sips more slowly,
breathes the bridge of years gone by,