Our bodies: broken-necked, trampled weeds pushing blades in the back of the countryside.
Our hue, off-note dahlias bouqueted in an orchestra of daisies and dogwood. Each sorrow song hangs open—
heavy and hollow. But these tangled weeds reach skyward, locked in formation, weaving
together like ivy. Our placement, so intricately woven around each ancient tree. Each willow keeping the secrets of centuries,
thirsting for the taste of rain.