Brittle Crust

cursed is the ground because of you


Just sitting here scraping linoleum off of hardwood floors with my mate. Prying brittle crust to restore the former glory of prostrate trees. In the brilliance of the winter sun. Reminds me of dragon scales and a boy named Eustace Scrubb.

A tale of seven years amounts to this. Together salvaging an old farmhouse from ruin, regaining a kingdom of earth and sky. No grander dream was ever sung or scribed. My cup overflows.

Pull off your paper skin
Though peeling may be labor
Abrade your heart of wood
Its grain will serve thy neighbor

Unearthing hidden treasure. With scarred hands. Here at our Anchorage.


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