I wish there to be leftovers, scraps, and forgotten instances of her spirit on the trails. I want to find it’s dusty film on the leaves, clinging to their veiny paths, it’s powers renewed each spring as new buds are charmed to grow and burst out to meet the heavens above. I want to trace it from the leaves to the crevices of a tree trunk, in all of her 500 year glory. As if it was holding it for safe keeping until I came along, in need of spirit. It would allow itself to fall from above onto the Earthy ground as I bent down to scoop it up and keep her close to me. The aging lines in the palms of my hands would glisten as it ground itself into me a little bit more each day. My hands would create a beauty that she could identify me by a mere glance of my tiny hands. My very own history, woven into my thick – skinned and calloused fingers, would only speak of kindness, understanding and love for her. Deep inside my splintered heart I would mend the bleeding spots with it’s paste. I would soothe my wounds with her guided, gentle caress, smoothing down the thistle parts with the tip of my own finger.

As I dance between the ugliness of industrial revolution it would be strewn onto the paths I walk.
Snuck between busses, cars, intertwined between the footsteps of strangers.

And thus, I could be lead to a moment of clarity.

Where I could be at peace with her nestled into the knots of trees, holding warmth until I return.

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