For my face is always
in the soil,
mud,
and cacti,
I have learned to love it.
YOU ARE READING
Burning Home
Poetry[ a poetry collection about grieving and becoming. ] I wish for the day when flowers no longer sink in water. When their eyes gaze not ignominy but proud; even dust can be seen as gold. And exhaustion feels rewarding.
name all the words with less
For my face is always
in the soil,
mud,
and cacti,
I have learned to love it.
