My, what great big trees you have.

There was never a story that I could keep from writing.

’You’re telling too much,’ he would say. ‘Nobody wants to know this.’

In my mind I planted great trees; in his I obstructed landscape. He wielded an axe in his hands and with my words built flames that licked the sky. Years passed and I stopped picking fruit.

My thoughts began to seed in my gums.

My trees were neglected and I grew old. That great forest was gone now, the trees had withered and the wood had thinned.

‘Gramma, gramma, tell us a story.’

And what could I say?

What could I say?

My, what great big trees you have.

Lacrimosa

Joined March 2009

  • Artwork Comments 21

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