I found this in my studio among my journals. A road-weary little journal. The cheapest kind you can buy in a drugstore. This page had obviously been almost washed away by rain. Or melting snowflakes--seeing that it was a Boston winter of 2003.
It took some effort to decipher:
There will be
stretches of goodness,
like rivers of wheat fields,
and occasional
storms, sudden
and angry
demanding.
Words. A moment in time.
Almost lost to rain or snow.
The result looks tears-ish.
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