The leaves on the patio were dry. Someone has raked them into a pile and left them there. Now the rain falls on them and the wind scatters them.
I am dry. My skin is dry. My hair is dry. One day I will be dust again and the rain will fall on me and the wind will scatter me
Taos is curves.
Walls that bend into archways.
Roads that curve and roll
around mountains and forests.
Not even the corners of the rooms are square.
Will my life curve here too?
Will I circle around to dicover the truth I was too young,
to know when
I circled through here the first time?
Life is curves and time bends into memories.