'Rural isn't a Dirty Word'
By christy
Here we chose to root ourselves, where sun and shadow pepper rich earth, where grass is more than a crack in the asphalt; My children will grow free of the city's black fist that plucks morals like feathers of unlucky chickens. They turn flips, pick wildflowers, draw breath without choking. Down the hill, I see my father's house. He is in his little metal boat, his hands cutting the smooth glass of the lake, pulling weeds to rot on the bank like corpses returning to earth. At the edge of the garden's pregnant belly, my mother hangs laundry with busy fingers, perfuming towels with sighs of summer while Phoebus freckles her shoulders. This is where I fell in love with my husband, with life, where the wise old oaks bend to listen when you whisper and rock you in the crooks of their rugged arms. Here we make memories, make peace, make underrated pleasures a gem in the soul, and find our suffering in the noonday heat. Written November 30th, 2001 © on Nov 30 2001 01:29 AM PST 18 • 0 • 10
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"Here we chose to root ourselves,..."