Tall Trees.

I flatten what I feel for security.

Plowing, pushing away clean snow. It sparkles and creates rust. The yellow, musky tracker does its job. It’s part of the whole. Watch though the window. It brings me noticeable warmth while everything congeals. There is no blizzard tonight. There is some musky carpet, queezy stomachs and wisdom that are too easily discarded.

Nobody knows what thirty-five feels like (age). My perception of thirty-five is strangely defined. As if a fifty-foot tree feels fifty feet tall. Why must we pretend? As forty-five and ninety.

My dog leaves me. She lives her own aspiration. I realize her value and wish her happiness.
One day she will not return. That is ok. I’ve allowed freedom. Potential. Understanding. Sympathy.

I’m letting go of anything I once wished to own. I’m letting go of you. Freedom blossoms as I reject all desire for power.

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