On new neighbourhood rites.
Flowers
On not writing
The problem with writing is I do not know if words are the very things I would most like to keep out.
Nothing like a horse
If there was anything else to drink, we would happily forget how the rain is made and never again believe in the colour blue.
By the lake
In another life, all I would do is find new names for the colour green, and it would be enough.
On hope
On the world and now and all the things that have happened and still may.
On grief
The end of a world as we know it.
Becoming
I am still so much even as I am less and less.
A testimony
As good a time as any to write the way I knew I would one day come back to, and start from.
The seasons
There will always be time to dance from now on; it is that kind of season.
Oranges pt. 2
It’s not easy coming home.
tea & risks 