ive replaced trees with mountains and ponds with lakes
but they all turn green at some point in the year.
a maple tree rounds at the top, a pine points upwards.
its not as hard to visit anymore,
I only tear up when i say goodbye and kiss the roads with no yellow lines.
finding my footing took two decades and i still trip over nothing,
landing in the under painting of a new england landscape—
the type frost would write about, not dickinson.
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blogspot wont let me comment on anybodys blogs lately): here are some of the comments i meant to write but not who i meant to write them to...
i like this a lot you captured subtle differences in new england landscapes really well
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