immersed in sensory waves finespun as the susurration of a butterfly’s wings, our recollections resonate with the signatures of different times & places, in accordance with how much we miss them, an orchestrated arrangement of threshold moments pulsating with sonorous vibrations, every beat a critical piece in the unfolding symphony within.

You whisper yourself

To sleep, dreaming of the sun

the wind speaks

through the rustling

of palm fronds

Sundays should be like this -

quietly listening

The Orchard both is and is not part of the Wildwood, the trees it contains filled with the Wood’s magic yet not part of the Wood’s mind because it is within the bounds of the Village, not the Wood. This duality both extends the lives of the trees significantly and also gives them … not voices, per say, but the ability to speak when they wish, to those who know how to hear them at least. Now, as…