Hey, how is everything in the other side of the world?
My yard is full of junk from a different era. I barely move between the rubbish.
Parts of humans, scattered remains, pale eyes, open caskets...Inside a basket, under the oak tree, are concealed souls for young lovers from a Victorian yesterday.
Develop in me, darling.
I promise not to hurt you. Explain the light to my darkness, kiss my rough edges, allow your spring to harvest my harsh winter.
My yard wants to be a garden again.