Monday, January 22, 2007


thank you, maker, for these moments carved out called today;

for the air between things.

thank you for the lines on trees, creeping all over the bark;

for space.

thank you that there is some kind of nothing in my lungs that keeps moving this thing called me;

for the grass which points in every direction, but always up, up, up: creeping with questions.

greg.



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