Under the leaves that have freshly fallen, under the browned, softer ones and under the mulch and humus debris beneath them, lies my soul. Chest to chest with the earth. It’s the press of a lover. Of longing. Of anguish …
Under the leaves that have freshly fallen, under the browned, softer ones and under the mulch and humus debris beneath them, lies my soul. Chest to chest with the earth. It’s the press of a lover. Of longing. Of anguish …